NRLF 


FIND 


BURGES 


FIND  THE  WOMAN 


I 


rOh«!»I  beg  your  pardon" 


FIND  THE  WOMAN 


GELETT  BURGESS 

Author  of 
VIDETTE,  THE  HEART  LINE.  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HANSON  BOOTH 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1911 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


TO 

SCHEHEREZADE,  BARON  MUNCHAUSEN 

JACQUES  CASANOVA 
ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT 

AND 

GLENMORE  DAVIS 

THESE  FEEBLE  ATTEMPTS  OF  FANCY  TO 

RIVAL  FACT  ARE  HUMBLY 

DEDICATED 


12795 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 
Prologue 

PAGE 

In  which  is  explained  how  an  architectural  draftsman 
came  to  possess  three  sets  of  names  before  he  was 
twenty-one,  and  how  a  portrait  disturbed  him 1 

CHAPTER  II 
The  House  of  the  Fortune  Teller 

How  John  Fenton  went  downtown  without  an  object,  and 
became  involved  in  a  picturesque  adventure  with  a  cer 
tain  strange  lady 15 

CHAPTER  III 
Schcffel  Hall 

How  our  hero,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  adventure,  met  at  his 
rendezvous  a  friend  of  his  youth,  and  heard  a  tale  of 
j  ewels  and  horror 24 

CHAPTER  IV 
The  Liars'  Club 

How  our  amateur  adventurer  fell  a  victim  to  his  own  in 
experience,  was  relieved  of  his  treasure,  and  fell  in  with 
a  precious  company 49 

CHAPTER  V 
The  Reporter  of  "The  Item" 

How  John  Fenton  achieved  a  pair  of  trousers  and  at 
tempted  assault  and  battery  unsuccessfully,  but  was  res 
cued  by  a  chubby  scribbler 95 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Suite  at  the  Plaza 

PAGE 

How  John  Fenton  encountered  a  friendly  gentleman  and 
was  given  the  possession  of  his  home,  and  of  the  lady 
who  appeared  there  in  tears 116 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Caxton  Dining-Room 

How  Fenton  met  Belle  Charmion  a  second  time,  was  en 
tertained  by  two  professional  beauties,  became  a  hero, 
and  secured  his  car  fare 149 

CHAPTER  VIII 
The  Subway  Express 

Concerning  the  philosophic  theory  of  profanity  as  an  art, 
and  its  practical  application  as  a  science;  and  the  doings 
of  Fenton's  ex-master 187 

CHAPTER  IX 
The  St.  Paul  Building. 

Wherein  John  Fenton  discovers  a  dead  body,  regains  pos 
session  of  certain  jewels,  and  is  besought  to  take  the 
place  of  a  titled  imposter 204 

CHAPTER  X 
Wycherley  Court 

In  which  John  Fenton  assists  at  a  social  function  in  high 
life,  wears  evening  dress  for  the  first  time,  and  again 
sees  Belle  Charmion...  .  229 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTER  XI 

The  Norcross  Apartments 

PAGE 

How  John  Fenton  helps  out  a  criminal  scheme,  witnesses 
an  arrest  and  an  escape,  waits  in  a  deserted  flat  and  gets 
a  new  name 259 

CHAPTER  XII 
A  Harlem  Lodging  House 

Describing  Fenton's  return  home  in  a  top  hat  and  how  he 
was  welcomed  by  a  friend  and  a  letter,  and  how  he 
profited  by  each  of  them 296 

CHAPTER  XIII 
The  Brewster  Mansion 

In  which  is  explained,  at  last,  how  and  why  Belle  Char- 
mion  was  so  ubiquitous  and  the  reason  she  offered  a  re 
ward  for  a  missing  fiance 313 


FIND  THE  WOMAN 


i 

PROLOGUE 

IN   WHICH   IS  EXPLAINED  HOW  AN  ARCHITECTURAL 

DRAFTSMAN    CAME   TO    POSSESS    THREE   SETS    OF 

NAMES  BEFORE  HE  WAS  TWENTY-ONE,  AND 

HOW  A  PORTRAIT  DISTURBED  HIM 

WHO  was  Belle  Charmion?  If  you  really  care 
to  know,  as  John  Fenton  did,  you  must  go 
with  him  on  his  quest,  hither  and  yon  over  New 
York,  into  strange  houses  and  through  side  streets 
at  midnight,  a  shuttle  in  the  secret  loom  of  fate, 
weaving  in  and  out  through  many-colored  threads, 
until  the  pattern  of  the  mystery  is  made  clear.  For 
the  warp  of  his  strange,  adventurous  career — love 
and  beauty  and  diamonds.  For  the  woof — some  few 
cross  currents  of  crime  and  misery.  There,  in  brief, 
is  the  web  of  his  drama.  So,  if  you  ask  for  such  di 
version,  the  narrative  must  perforce  begin  with  a 

I 


2  FIND   THE  WOMAN 

prelude,  that  you  may  make  acquaintance  with  the 
hero,  and  see  what  manner  of  youth  and  tempera 
ment  sped  him  on  his  way. 

To  explain  why  an  engineer's  draftsman  of  no 
especial  talent  should,  at  twenty-one,  have  already 
had  three  sets  of  names,  the  review  of  his  history 
should  be  divided  into  five  epochs.  The  first,  a  pre 
historic  era,  that  of  his  babyhood,  was,  in  his  mem 
ory,  a  mere  blur  of  confused,  faded  pictures, 
amongst  which  stood  out  one  vivid,  sharp  recollec 
tion — a  scene  on  a  ferry  boat,  swept  by  keen  brisk 
winds,  cool  under  a  watery  spring  sun.  He  was 
playing  on  deck  with  a  little  yellow-haired  girl  un 
der  the  careless  supervision  of  two  indefinite  elders. 
With  a  small  boy's  insistence  he  was  teasing  his 
companion,  clutching  at  a  gold  heart-shaped  locket 
with  a  white  star,  which  hung  about  her  neck.  She 
pulled  away  from  him,  the  chain  broke,  and  she  ran 
crying  to  her  guardian,  leaving  the  locket  in  his 
hands.  .  .  . 

The  second  epoch,  that  of  his  childhood  between 
the  ages  of  four  and  eight,  was  somewhat  more 
clear  in  his  mind,  although  there  were  many  gaps 
he  could  never  account  for.  He  was  living  in  South 


PROLOGUE  3 

Boston,  and  now  his  name  was  Michael  O'Shea. 
His  scarlet  hair  had  gained  for  him  amongst  the 
children  of  his  street  the  easy  sobriquet  of  "Reddy" ; 
and  at  first  he  had  not  consented  to  the  name  with 
out  many  savage  protests.  Living  with  an  uncle  and 
an  aunt,  the  O' Sheas,  hard  by  the  Blind  Asylum,  his 
life  was  a  street  urchin's  career  of  conflict  and  rov 
ing,  with  intermittent  enforced  sessions  at  the  pri 
mary  school.  He  roamed  from  the  Point  to  the 
Dover  Street  Bridge;  he  knew  the  docks  to  the  last 
pile,  from  the  land  and  from  the  water ;  he  felt,  too 
often,  the  missile  of  an  opponent  gang — a  snowball 
enclosing  a  rock.  Of  his  lineage  he  heard  only  that 
his  mother  had  been  a  mill  hand  in  Fitchburg  and 
that  his  father  had  died  at  sea — this  information, 
embroidered  by  diverse  details  which,  little  by  little, 
he  perceived  as  lies,  was  always  told  him  with  winks 
and  smiles,  as  if,  concealed  within  their  falsehoods, 
was  some  consummate  joke.  He  grew  tired  of  ques 
tioning,  finally,  and  brooded  sullenly  over  the  puzzle 
of  his  birth. 

When  he  was  eight  years  old  the  O'Sheas,  with  a 
shiny  black  valise  and  a  paper-covered  trunk,  moved 
to  New  York.  They  took  two  rooms  in  a  tenement 
on  the  east  side — a  place  of  multitudinous  fire  es- 


4  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

capes,  waving  blankets,  screaming  children  and 
dented  ash  barrels.  But  in  that  place,  "Reddy" 
O'Shea  was  not  to  stay  long. 

The  day  after  moving  in,  while  Mrs.  O'Shea  was 
unpacking  the  trunk  and  Mangus  O'Shea  was  shav 
ing  at  a  broken  triangle  of  mirror  stuck  in  the  win 
dow,  the  boy's  eyes  caught  a  shiny  something  in  an 
open  cardboard  box.  In  wonder,  with  a  queer,  sick- 
ish  feeling  of  recognition  he  stooped  down  and  took 
it — a  little  golden  heart  with  a  star  of  white  stones 
on  the  cover.  Strange  memories,  as  if  of  a  long  for 
gotten  dream,  stirred  him  uneasily  as  he  handled  it. 
The  next  moment  he  was  knocked  down  by  a  violent 
cuff  on  the  ear,  and  Mangus  O'Shea  stood  over  him, 
his  small  reddish  eyes  blazing,  ugly  with  anger,  his 
snarling  lips,  parted,  revealing  a  broken  row  of  lit 
tle  black  teeth,  horribly  distinct  in  the  middle  of  his 
lathered  face. 

"Look  at  that  what's  ye've  done  now!"  he  ex 
claimed  to  his  wife.  "After  four  years  av  hidin' 
and  pullin'  the  wool  over  his  eyes !  It'll  be  your  fault 
now  if  he  begins  to  prick  up  his  ears.  Why  didn't 
ye  lock  it  up  from  him  ?"  He  turned  to  the  boy  and 
shook  a  great  scarred  hairy  fist.  "If  I  ketch  you 
snooping  round  after  things  again,  I'll  break  every 


PROLOGUE  5 

rib  in  your  body,  and  mind  ye  that!"  He  struck 
"Reddy"  again  viciously  to  enforce  the  warning,  and 
returned  to  his  shaving. 

No  sooner  had  he  turned  his  back  than  the  boy 
slipped  out,  ran  down  the  narrow,  dirty  stairs  of  the 
tenement  and  was  out  on  the  street.  He  hurried 
down-town  as  fast  as  his  legs  would  carry  him. 

There  followed  two  days  of  wandering,  starva 
tion,  cold.  .  .  .  He  crossed  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
and  lost  himself  in  a  wilderness  of  narrow  streets 
with  rows  of  dreary  looking  houses.  .  .  .  When 
Dr.  Hopbottom  found  him,  he  was  only  half  con 
scious.  ..  .  . 

The  third  epoch,  that  of  his  adolescence,  was  the 
wretchedest  of  all.  A  household  drudge,  enslaved 
by  Mrs.  Hopbottom  for  domestic  assistance,  wash 
ing  dishes,  sweeping,  cooking,  a  hundred  other  de- 
gradingly  feminine  tasks  which  went  even  to  sewing 
and  darning  the  doctor's  woolen  socks.  Joe  Hop- 
bottom,  as  he  was  now  called,  almost  forgot  that  he 
was  a  boy.  He  lived  in  squalor,  gnawing  scraps  in 
the  kitchen,  scolded  by  Mrs.  Hopbottom  continually, 
and  continually  preached  at  by  the  doctor,  a  hoary 
old  hypocrite,  whose  face  Joe  loathed. 


6  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

The  doctor's  favorite  occupation  was  to  lecture 
the  boy  on  the  simple  life.  "Plain  living  and  high 
thinking,  Joe/'  he  would  say,  his  cheeks  bulging  with 
mince  pie  or  suet  pudding.  "Don't  make  your  belly 
your  god!"  as  he  shoveled  in  loaded  knife  fulls  of 
hot  pork.  The  doctor's  face  was  greasy  with  exud 
ing  fat.  His  hands  were  pudgy.  "Manners  make  the 
man,  Joe,  not  clothes!"  he  often  said  to  his  miser 
able,  ragged  ward,  as  he  strung  a  heavy  gold  watch 
chain  across  his  embroidered  waistcoat.  "I  think 
that  suit  of  yours  will  do  another  year,  with  a  little 
brushing."  And  so  it  went. 

The  doctor  did  not  drink  or  swear.  He  had  all 
the  virtues  of  the  Pharisees,  including  a  goat's 
beard ;  but  for  every  worldly  vice  he  had  an  efficient 
substitute.  Instead  of  alcohol  he  used  coffee  with  an 
equally  stimulating  effect,  injecting  it  under  his  skin 
till  he  was  as  yellow  as  a  Moor.  In  the  place  of  pro 
fanity,  he  made  use  of  a  highly  original  but  perfectly 
adequate  diction  composed  of  scientific  terms.  To 
poor,  terrified  Joe  this  jargon  seemed  worse  than 
any  oaths  sanctified  by  custom.  "You  toxoleuco- 
cyte,"  he  would  exclaim  to  the  boy,  "what  do  you 
want  to  make  a  phenyltrybrompropionic  hypothe- 


PROLOGUE  jr 

nuse  of  yourself  for?"  To  such  mysterious  apos 
trophes  Joe  could  make  no  answer. 

Only  once  did  he  see  Mangus  O'Shea.  That  was 
when  he  went  to  New  York  with  the  doctor  to  at 
tend  the  meeting  of  a  committee  investigating  the 
white  slave  traffic.  They  were  walking  up  the  Bow 
ery,  the  doctor  absorbed  in  the  theatrical  posters, 
when  the  Irishman  passed  them.  He  stopped  and 
stared.  Joe,  turning  around  fearfully  to  see  if  he 
had  been  observed,  caught  O' Shea's  eager  red  eyes 
upon  him.  He  clung  to  the  doctor's  hands  and 
urged  him  forward.  Dr.  Hopbottom  reluctantly 
resumed  his  journey.  At  the  next  stand,  bearing 
the  picture  of  "Pulchritude's  Peacherino  Bur- 
lesquers,"  the  boy  turned  round  and  saw  that  O'Shea 
had  followed.  At  Canal  Street  he  was  lost  in  the 
crowd.  Joe  dreamed  of  him  for  seven  nights  run 
ning,  but  then  a  new  interest  diverted  his  thoughts. 

Rummaging  in  the  dusty  attic  one  day  while  Mrs. 
Hopbottom  was  at  her  sewing-circle,  Joe  discovered 
some  old  numbers  of  the  "Studio"  left  by  a  lodger; 
and,  between  his  washings  and  his  darnings,  he 
pored  over  wonderful  photographs  of  paintings  and 
sculpture,  hiding  the  book  under  the  eaves  when 


8  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

he  went  back  to  work.  At  night,  when  he  had  a  few 
moments  to  himself,  he  copied  the  pictures  with  pen 
cil,  patiently,  lovingly,  abominably. 

The  Hopbottoms  did,  at  least,  permit  him  an  edu 
cation  ;  and  he  had  almost  finished  his  course  at  the 
high  school,  before  the  crash  came.  The  "Studio" 
and  a  boy  in  his  own  class  brought  on  the  crisis. 
His  friend  was  a  member  of  a  private  life  class 
which  rented  a  studio  on  Tuesday  and  Thursday 
evenings,  hired  an  inexpressibly  ugly  model  and 
drew  therefrom  in  charcoal.  The  class  was  com 
posed  mainly  of  architects'  ambitious  draftsmen, 
and  with  his  friend's  influence,  Joe  was  permitted  to 
join.  Finding  money  for  paper  and  charcoal  and 
board  seemed  at  first  impossible,  but  the  sale  of  old 
rags  and  bottles  filched  from  the  Hopbottoms'  cellar 
at  last  sufficed  for  the  purchase  of  his  material,  and 
the  men  allowed  him  to  attend  for  a  while,  gratis. 
The  boy  was  already  a  personable,  good-natured 
youth  and  soon  became  popular.  His  explanation  of 
his  absence  was  that  he  was  attending  a  Bible  class 
at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

His  industry  was  great,  if  not  his  talent.  By  the 
time  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  a  fat  roll  of  ter 
rible  studies  from  the  nude  was  hidden  away  in  the 


PROLOGUE  9 

attic.  Joe  had  become  so  enthusiastic  in  the  'pursuit 
of  art  that  he  had  almost  forgotten  the  chaste  point 
of  view  of  the  Philistines.  Dr.  Hopbottom  still 
preached  asceticism  (for  others)  gesticulating  with 
his  pie ;  and  still  his  fat  increased.  Still  he  preached 
the  simple  life,  the  renunciation  of  the  flesh,  the 
temptation  of  the  senses. 

One  night  Joe  and  his  friend  left  a  vaudeville  the 
ater  in  shocked  disgust  at  the  row  of  vulgar,  half- 
clad  females,  who  were  performing  a  suggestive 
burlesque.  As  he  went  out,  he  saw  Dr.  Hopbottom's 
unctuous  grinning  face  in  the  audience,  his  eyes  de 
vouring  the  charms  of  the  actresses. 

It  was  the  next  morning  the  explosion  came.  Mrs. 
Hopbottom,  climbing  up-stairs  for  a  spring  clean 
ing,  discovered  Joe's  charcoal  studies  from  the  nude. 
There  was  a  hysterical  tumult,  lightnings  of  her 
flashing  eye,  thunder  of  her  expostulation,  a  storm 
of  tattered  charcoal  drawings.  Joe  put  his  head 
through  the  doorway  to  find  the  cause  of  her  tem 
per.  With  his  ear  in  one  hand,  and  the  sole  survivor 
of  his  sketches  (as  a  sample  of  sin)  in  her  other,  the 
lady  stalked  into  the  doctor's  study.  His  wrath  was 
sublime — moral  precepts,  sermonettes,  warnings, 
prayers,  reproaches,  quotations  from  the  Bible,  Tim- 


io  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

othy  iv,  12;  Leviticus  xxvi,  27-29.  He  invoked 
pictures  of  future  torment — and  made  a  closer  in 
spection  of  the  drawing.  He  put  it  away  carefully 
in  his  desk,  waving  his  wife's  itching  fingers  aside, 
and  invoked  Heaven,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

Joe  could  stand  it  no  longer,  told,  pithily,  of  the 
previous  evening's  vaudeville  horrors  (it  was  prayer 
meeting  night)  then  left  the  doctor  and  his  blazing 
spouse  to  fight  it  out  together.  He  packed  a  few 
clothes  with  deliberation,  and  walked  calmly,  hap 
pily,  back  across  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  He  was  free ; 
a  great  peace  was  in  his  soul.  Half  way  across  he 
wafted  a  gorgeous  resolution  forth  upon  the  breeze. 
The  loathly  name  of  Hopbottom  sailed  from  his 
body,  never  to  return.  Stealing  a  new  one  from 
the  first  theatrical  bill-board  he  passed,  he  entered 
New  York  as  John  Fenton.  So  began  his  youth. 

We  may  pass  lightly  over  the  next  five  years  of 
his  life.  He  had  been  trained  to  take  hard  knocks, 
he  had  industry  and  a  savor  of  humor — he  made  his 
way.  Some  of  his  draftsmen  friends  busied  them 
selves  for  him  and  he  soon  found  a  position  as  an 
office  boy  for  a  firm  of  architects.  Between  his  petty 
duties,  he  practised  lettering,  copied  the  orders,  made 


PROLOGUE  ii 

blue  prints  and  tracings.  What  he  lacked  in  genius 
he  made  up  in  determination;  and,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  he  earned  eighteen  dollars  a  week,  and 
by  frugality  and  a  cheap  Harlem  lodging  house 
saved  the  half  of  it.  The  red  of  his  hair  had  toned 
to  a  deep  auburn ;  gymnasium  work,  long  walks  and 
simple  living  had  improved  his  looks  till  many  a 
girl's  eyes  gave  him  a  second  glance  as  he  passed. 
He  had,  even  in  his  obscurity,  the  habits  of  a  gen 
tleman  and  a  way  of  wearing  his  ready-made 
clothes  that  took  off  the  curse  of  cheapness.  His 
landlady  was  wont  to  gossip  over  his  charms  and  his 
aristocratic  manners.  She  let  many  a  room  on  the 
strength  of  them. 

Once,  five  or  six  years  after  he  had  escaped  from 
Brooklyn,  he  came  upon  Dr.  Hopbottom  in  a  penny 
arcade.  The  doctor  was  looking  into  a  moving  pic 
ture  machine  bearing  the  legend,  'The  Story  of  an 
Artist's  Model."  He  was  turning  the  crank  slowly 
— very  slowly.  Something  arrested  his  attention ;  he 
looked  up  with  a  guilty  face. 

"Good  morning,"  said  John  affably,  wondering 
why  he  had  ever  feared  this  senile  old  fool. 

"You  correlated  dimorphic  appendix,  you,  what 


12  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

are  you  doing?  Some  blastodermic  correlations  mis 
chief,  I  suppose?"  The  doctor  tried  to  look  dignified. 

"Oh,  I'm  going  in  for  architecture.  I  see  you're 
at  your  old  game,  though!"  said  John;  and,  giving 
him  a  withering  smile,  passed  on. 

And  so  at  last  we  come  to  the  picture  which  in 
augurated  John  Fenton's  fifth  epoch. 

******* 

Lucky  for  men  that  all  have  not  the  same  tastes ! 
Lucky  for  men  that  each  chooses  his  own  type  of 
beauty!  Lucky  that  no  one  woman  can  please  all 
men !  Else,  every  woman  might  be  a  Helen  of  Troy 
and  war  would  rage  amongst  men  over  her  everlast 
ingly.  Unlucky  for  "Melton's  Magazine,"  however, 
that  there  were  not  more  John  Fentons  to  mob  the 
news  stands  and  buy  up  a  certain  edition  of  that 
periodical.  Comparatively  few  men,  perhaps,  would 
call  the  girl's  face  pretty.  Most,  at  least,  would  turn 
the  page  with  small  regret.  But  to  John  Fenton,  the 
sight  of  that  face  was  the  starting  of  many  emo 
tions  ;  in  that  glance  he  achieved  maturity ;  his  youth 
ended  on  page  two  hundred  twelve,  manhood  began 
at  page  two  hundred  thirteen. 

He  came  across  the  magazine  in  a  friend's  studio, 
and,  not  daring  to  confess  how  much  the  picture  af- 


PROLOGUE  13 

fected  him,  he  sought  a  chance,  cut  out  the  page  and 
concealed  it  under  his  coat.  It  showed  the  face  of  a 
girl  of  perhaps  twenty  years,  with  soft,  parted  hair 
rolling  away  from  her  forehead,  eyes  wide  apart 
under  level  brows  and  a  smiling  mouth  at  once  de 
mure  and  whimsical.  So  much  for  the  outward 
aspect.  Beauty,  however,  is  subjective.  In  John 
Fenton's  mind  something  responded  as  to  a  message 
— the  secret  call  of  a  subconscious  desire — potent 
as  a  magic  charm.  To  win  that  girl  he  would  have 
ploughed  across  Arctic  snows,  fought  his  way 
through  tropical  jungles,  chanced  peril,  war  or  pesti 
lence.  So  much  he  resolved  at  first  glance. 

When  he  got  the  page  safely  home  he  smoothed 
out  its  wrinkles  and  studied  it,  perturbed  and  trem 
bling.  By  a  sorry  trick  of  chance  some  one,  cutting 
a  paragraph  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  page,  had 
deleted  the  name  of  the  girl.  Not  till  he  had  had  the 
portrait  on  his  wall  for  a  week,  not  till  a  new  ele 
ment  had  begun  to  creep  into  its  attraction  for  him, 
did  he  realize  that  he  had  been  a  fool  not  to  look  at 
the  magazine  and  see  its  name  and  date,  that  he 
might  procure  an  undisfigured  copy.  It  was  now 
impossible  to  trace  it,  and  the  girl  must  remain  un- 
riamed. 


14  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

As  he  studied  it,  day  by  day,  its  charm  grew  more 
potent.  Something  more  than  the  girl's  mere  phys 
ical  attraction  moved  him.  The  romance  and  mystery 
of  the  face  became  more  and  more  magnetic — at  first 
vague  and  troublesome,  it  at  last  absorbed  him;  it 
seemed  to  promise  some  hidden  meaning  for  him 
alone.  The  talk  of  a  Theosophical  fellow- worker  at 
his  office  began  to  simmer  in  his  brain.  Had  he  per 
chance  known  this  girl  in  some  previous  life?  Were 
their  destinies  linked  ?  Had  they  made  Karma  to 
gether  ?  In  such  wise  he  mused.  At  times  the  strain 
on  his  imagination  grew  so  tense  that  he  would  put 
the  picture  away  and  busy  himself  with  prosaic  sub 
jects — some  competition  for  court  house  or  pergola. 
But  the  lady  did  not  long  hide  her  face.  Back  she 
came  to  his  wall  again,  now  as  expensively  framed 
as  a  dry-point  Helleu  etching — and  again  John  Fen- 
ton's  thoughts  roved  on  the  wings  of  romance. 


II 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  FORTUNE  TELLER 

HOW  JOHN  FENTONWENT  DOWN-TOWN  WITHOUT  AN 
OBJECT,   AND   BECAME  INVOLVED  IN  A   PICTUR 
ESQUE  ADVENTURE    WITH   A    CERTAIN 
STRANGE  LADY 

JOHN  FENTON  returned  from  tfie  office  one 
April  evening  and  as  usual  gazed  long  at  the 
picture.  He  went  out  with  the  spell  still  upon  him; 
it  charmed  him  even  in  the  heated,  sordid,  common 
place  atmosphere  of  the  cheap  restaurant  where  he 
habitually  dined.  Aforetimes,  he  had  held  inter 
rupted  jocose  intercourse  with  Millie,  his  favorite 
waitress ;  but  of  late  Millie's  charms  had  faded.  He 
had  begun  to  notice  that  her  hands  and  ears  were 
large.  After  his  small,  squat  cup  of  adulterated 
boiled  coffee,  he  took  a  subway  express  to  Times 
Square  and,  as  was  his  wont,  wandered  down 
Broadway — into  the  splendor  of  modern  Babylon. 

New  York  was  waking  up  to  its  per  fervid  night 
life.   The  electric  signs  blazed  convulsively,  throw- 

15 


16  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

ing  spasms  of  red  and  white  and  green  against  the 
darkling  sky.  The  taxicabs  grew  nervous,  hurried, 
searching  here  and  there  like  roaches  in  a  dirty 
kitchen.  The  women  of  the  shadow  began  to  emerge 
into  the  glare,  overtly  stalking  their  prey.  John 
Fenton,  still  wrapped  in  his  dream,  walked  on  un- 
regarding,  like  a  machine. 

At  the  opera  house  he  waked  up  enough  to  take 
his  accustomed  place  in  a  shy  corner  to  watch  the 
influx  of  wealth  and  fashion.  He  had  a  new  measure 
for  their  grace  and  beauty,  now;  and  as  they  en 
tered,  one  by  one  they  failed.  Once  he  had  a  sudden, 
clutching  gasp  of  surprise  as  a  girl  passed  him  cool 
and  imperious,  in  her  long  cloak  of  chinchilla.  He 
stared.  At  first  he  wildly  thought  his  time  had  come 
and  she  was  the  girl  of  the  picture.  But  she  turned 
full  upon  him  and  he  saw  her  mouth  was  selfish, 
cruel,  false.  He  turned  and  walked  down-town, 
trembling;  and  after  a  while  passed  still  dreaming, 
into  a  side  street  to  escape  the  crowd. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  his  idly  roving  eyes 
encountered  a  sign  on  a  door,  reading  "Madame  Os 
wald,  Palmist  and  Medium."  He  stopped  and  stared 
at  it  curiously.  Why  not,  for  once,  seek  that  vulgar 
shrine,  consult  the  oracle  and  illumine  his  fate? 


HOUSE  OF  THE  FORTUNE  TELLER    17 

Life,  of  late,  while  seeming  duller  of  fact,  had  to  his 
fancy  become  suddenly  stimulated.  That  fancy  must 
be  fed — a  mere  portrait  could  no  longer  satisfy  him. 
He  was  in  a  mood  for  romance,  and  here  was  one  of 
Romance's  immemorial  priestesses.  He  slowly  as 
cended  the  steps,  rang  the  bell,  waited. 

A  negro  servant  opened  to  him,  and  led  him  into 
a  front  parlor,  lighted  by  a  single  lamp  on  a  table. 
He  sat  down,  already  embarrassed,  upon  an  uncom 
fortable  red  plush  sofa  and  gazed,  fascinated,  at  a 
huge  painted  panel  on  the  opposite  wall,  whereon 
some  audacious  amateur  had  copied  some  wearied 
professional's  conception  of  Francesca  da  Rimini 
and  her  lover.  The  black  eyes  of  the  heroine  held 
him  till  Madame  Oswald  appeared,  massive,  blonde, 
swathed  in  a  purple  gown. 

There  were  the  usual  preliminaries;  Madame's 
quick,  close  scrutiny  appraising  him  at  a  glance — 
an  attempt  to  secure  a  "full  life  reading"  at  double 
the  ordinary  price, — the  production  of  a  velvet  pad 
upon  which  his  hand  should  rest — and  the  drone  of 
prophecy  began.  She  prodded  his  palm  with  a  little 
ivory  pointer,  noted  extraordinary  lines,  stars  and 
mounts,  and  brought  forth  her  three  inevitable 
themes.  The  gentleman  was  of  a  strangely  sensi- 


18  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

tive  nature,  and  was  much  misunderstood.  He  was 
worried  over  something,  and  didn't  know  quite  what 
to  do.  He  had  intuition,  psychic  power,  mediumship, 
but  it  was  undeveloped.  A  course  of  developing 
seances,  now,  at  five  dollars  a  week,  would  bring  out 
unexpected  powers.  .  .  .  No?  Well,  then,  let 
him  ask  a  question.  She  leaned  back  and  closed  her 
eyes.  Fenton  watched  her  bulky  satin  chest  heave 
heavily  as  she  breathed.  Her  large  placid  face,  with 
its  one  hairy  mole,  fascinated  him.  Then  the  picture 
came  into  his  mind,  and  he  asked  in  a  whisper: 
"Who  is  she?" 

"Who  is  she?"  she  repeated,  as  if  to  some  spirit 
guide.  Her  voluminous  bust  expanded  in  a  gasp. 
She  quivered,  rolled  her  head,  and  finally  answered : 
"I  see  the  letters  B.  C."  She  opened  her  eyes  sud 
denly  and  shot  at  him,  "Ain't  that  right?" 

"Darned  if  I  know,"  he  replied. 

At  that  she  plucked  up  courage  and  went  on  with 
out  hesitation.  "B.  C.,"  she  repeated.  "It's  Belle,  or 
Blanche  or  Bessie.  I  ain't  sure  which.  But  she's  in 
your  life  current,  and  she's  attracting  you  her  way. 
Yes,  yes, — you're  going  to  marry  her,  and  marry 
with  money,  too.  I  ain't  sure  if  it's  hers  or  yourn. 
But  look  out  for  one  thing,  and  that's  a  man  with  a 


HOUSE  OF  THE  FORTUNE  TELLER    19 

split  ear.  Don't  you  trust  him!  Is  they  anything 
else  you  wanted  to  know  ?  Fifty  cents,  please !" 

Fenton  never  paid  the  fee ;  for,  no  sooner  had  she 
spoken  than,  with  a  terrified  expression,  she  jumped 
up  and  ran  to  the  window.  She  turned  back  to  him 
a  large  white  anguished  face. 

"My  God !  The  police !  They  are  a-goin'  to  pull 
me !"  She  began  to  pluck  at  her  breast  and  moan. 

Fenton  rose,  beginning  to  be  frightened  himself. 
"What  the  devil's  the  matter?"  He  grabbed  up  his 
hat  and  his  coat. 

"Oh,  I  knew  they  was  a-roundin*  up  the  mediums 
and  palmists  this  week,"  she  cried,  "but  I  come 
across  with  my  tax  to  the  captain  all  right,  only  last 
Tuesday,  and  he  swore  they'd  never  touch  me.  This 
means  a  hundred  dollars  out  for  me,  an'  I  ain't  got 
ten !  Say,  kid,  you  get  out  quick,  or  they'll  hold  you 
for  a  witness !  I  don't  want  no  more  evidence  than 
I  can  help — hurry,  for  God's  sake !  Get  out  through 
the  back  parlor,  there !" 

Even  as  she  spoke  the  front  door  bell  rang,  and 
the  handle  was  rattled  to  enforce  the  summons. 
Fenton  did  not  stay  to  see  the  issue,  but  ran  in  be 
tween  the  folding  doors  to  a  room  cluttered  by  fem 
inine  garments  in  scandalous  disorder.  He  opened 


20  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

a  door  into  the  hall,  but,  on  the  instant,  heard  the 
officers  entering.  He  could  not  escape  that  way.  If 
he  could  not  find  some  other  exit  he  would  be  caught 
like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  He  darted  to  the  window  and 
saw  a  fire-escape  landing.  Out  he  climbed. 

The  back  yard  showed  no  feasible  route  of  egress. 
He  ran  up  the  iron  ladder,  peered  into  a  window, 
tried  it  and  found  it  locked,  then  hurried  up  to  the 
next  floor.  Here  the  window  was  opened  and  the 
room  lighted.  He  glanced  in  and  gave  a  suppressed 
cry  of  surprise. 

Stooping  down  to  the  floor,  a  woman,  dressed  in 
Russian  sables,  was  gathering  into  a  traveling  bag, 
by  handfuls,  a  profusion  of  gems,  that,  scattered 
upon  the  carpet,  made  the  place  a  miracle.  By  the 
vivid  flashes  of  red,  blue,  yellow  and  green  that  daz 
zled  his  eyes,  there  must  have  been,  in  all,  some  two 
hundred  precious  stones,  set  and  unset — rings,  brace 
lets,  necklaces,  pins  and  pendants.  Where  there  was 
not  the  prismatic  fire  of  precious  stones,  there  was 
the  dull  sheen  of  gold.  For  the  most  part  the  jewels 
lay  in  a  puddle  of  gorgeous  color;  but,  spattered 
from  this,  all  over  the  floor  single  sparks  of  radiant 
light  twinkled  as  if  a  rainbow  had  exploded  in  the 
room,  and  lay  in  splendid  fragments. 


I  swear  I  am  innocent 


HOUSE  OF  THE  FORTUNE  TELLER   21 

As  he  stood  there  transfixed,  the  woman  turned, 
caught  sight  of  his  white  face  and  screamed.  With 
a  sudden  movement  she  threw  herself  full  length 
upon  the  floor  like  a  hen  trying  to  protect  her  chicks 
at  the  approach  of  a  hawk.  Fenton  was  too  aston 
ished  to  think  of  his  own  peril,  too  astonished  even 
to  speak ;  it  was  the  woman  who  broke  the  silence. 

"Who  are  you,  for  God's  sake  ?"  she  moaned. 

Still  Fenton  stared,  aghast,  inarticulate. 

"Are  you  a  burglar  ?" 

His  tongue  loosened  at  last.  "The  house  is  raided ! 
The  police  are  down  stairs — they've  got  Madame  Os 
wald.  What  in  Heaven's  name  does  all  this  mean?" 

She  paled,  she  faltered;  then,  with  a  shocked 
face,  arose  and  stood,  with  her  hand  to  her  head, 
as  if  panic  stricken.  Fenton  got  a  good  look  at  her 
now  and  saw  that  she  was  beautiful,  with  a  piquant, 
eager  face,  exquisite  scarlet  lips,  and  deep  brown 
eyes  suffused  with  tears.  Her  skin  had  an  olive  cast 
and  her  hair  was  dark.  Altogether  she  was  unlike 
any  woman  he  had  ever  seen — an  exotic  type  with  a 
sensuous  prettiness  made  delicate,  refined  by  great 
intelligence.  Was  she  Oriental  ?  There  was  at  least 
something  tropical  about  her  beauty — it  was  too 
vivid,  too  moving  for  an  Anglo-Saxon. 


22  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

She  had  stood  staring  at  him,  thinking  intently; 
now  she  darted  to  the  window  and  laid  a  gracile 
hand  upon  his  arm,  as  she  looked  sharply  into 
his  face.  She  spoke  under  her  breath:  "You  look 
honest  and  brave.  Will  you  help  me?  I  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose,  if  the  police  are  in  the  house. 
Quick!" 

Without  waiting  an  answer  she  dragged  him  over 
the  window  sill  into  the  room.  Before  he  had  col 
lected  his  wits  she  was  scrabbling  the  jewels  from 
the  floor  and  loading  them  into  his  pockets. 

"I  swear  I  am  innocent  of  any  crime!"  she  ex 
claimed  passionately,  as  she  gathered  a  handful  of 
diamonds,  rubies,  and  emeralds  from  the  floor  and 
dropped  them  into  his  overcoat  pocket.  "You've  got 
to  help  me  out — there  is  no  one  else  to  save  me — 
and  the  honor  of  a  great  family." 

She  ran  to  the  door,  listened,  and  returned  with 
compressed  lips,  to  stoop  for  more  jewels.  They 
dripped  from  her  fingers  as  she  rose,  great  drops  of 
iridescent  color,  the  hues  of  blood  and  poison,  to  be 
gathered  again  in  her  little  hands.  "All  I  want  is 
that  these  things  should  be  restored  to  their  rightful 
owner.  Why,  if  the  police  find  them  here  it  will  be 
awful — I  can  never  explain — a  terrible  scandal  will 


HOUSE  OF  THE  FORTUNE  TELLER   23 

come  out !"  Again  she  scraped  up  her  hands  full — 
chains  of  fire  opals,  brooches  of  carved  emeralds, 
topazes  and  sapphires,  a  tiny  enameled  watch,  a  half 
dozen  rings,  dazzling  with  rubies.  Already  his  inside 
pockets  were  full,  the  stones  pressed  hard  against 
his  sides.  She  opened  the  flaps  of  his  outside  pockets 
and  thrust  in  more  gems.  "Don't  ask  any  questions 
— there's  no  time.  I  hope  to  God  you  can  get  away 
safe — you  must  do  your  best — I  am  being  followed, 
but  they  won't  suspect  you.  Now  then,  be  quick !" 

By  this  time  the  last  jewel  was  concealed,  and  Fen- 
ton,  his  coat  bulging  with  the  treasure,  stood  before 
her  pale  and  trembling  with  excitement.  Just  then 
there  came  a  noise  from  the  stairway,  a  bang  upon 
the  hall  door. 

"Out  the  window !"  she  hissed.  "Get  away  some 
how,  for  heaven's  sake — and  meet  me  at  Scheffel 
Hall — and  wait  till  I  come!"  In  another  instant  she 
had  hustled  him  out  onto  the  fire  escape,  shut  the 
window  behind  him  and  turned  off  the  gas.  As  he 
climbed  the  next  flight  of  iron  steps,  out  of  sight, 
he  heard  the  pounding  on  the  door  grow  louder; 
some  one  was  shouting  for  her  to  open. 


Ill 

SCHEFFEL  HALL 

HOW    OUR   HERO,   IN   THE   PURSUIT   OF    HIS   ADVEN 
TURE,    MET   AT    HIS   RENDEZVOUS   A   FRIEND   OF 
HIS  YOUTH,  AND   HEARD  A  TALE  OF  JEW 
ELS  AND  HORROR 

SO  up  Fenton  went  with  his  heart  pumping,  ob 
structed  by  his  overcoat,  gained  the  next  land 
ing  and  looked  about  for  a  means  of  escape.  Three 
or  four  feet  away  from  him  the  roof  of  an  ell  stood, 
its  flat  roof  level  with  his  landing.  With  no  definite 
plan  of  escape,  he  jumped  across  the  opening,  landed 
upon  the  gravel  roof  and  hurried  along,  dodging 
under  telephone  wires,  to  where  another  roof  rose, 
a  few  feet  higher.  Up  this  he  scrambled  and  looked 
about.  There  was  a  trap  door  a  few  yards  away. 
He  made  his  way  to  it,  tried  it,  and  found  it  un 
locked.  Lifting  it,  he  gazed  down  into  a  black  hole. 
At  first  he  could  see  nothing,  but  as  his  eyes  grew 
accustomed  to  the  darkness  he  made  out  a  ladder 
leading  down.  With  terror  in  his  soul,  he  cautiously 

24 


SCHEFFEL    HALL  25 

groped  his  way  to  the  foot,  bumped  his  head,  felt 
about  for  a  door,  opened  one  and  found  himself,  to 
his  immense  relief,  in  the  upper  hallway  of  an  apart 
ment  house.  Here  he  paused  for  a  moment  to  regain 
his  breath  and  his  courage. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  descend  boldly 
and  trust  his  luck  not  to  be  observed.  He  got  down 
the  first  flight  in  safety,  meeting  no  one,  but  at  the 
next  landing  was  suddenly  confronted  by  a  young 
girl  coming  up.  She  started  in  surprise,  eyed  him 
keenly,  but  said  nothing.  He  felt  her  eyes  upon  him 
as  he  went  down.  In  the  lowest  hall  a  negro  lad  was 
dozing  at  a  telephone  desk.  He  did  not  move.  Fen- 
ton  opened  the  front  door;  the  boy  waked,  caught 
sight  of  him  and  shouted  something.  Fenton  hur 
ried  out,  not  daring  to  run,  got  down  the  front  steps 
with  his  pulse  quickened  to  fever  speed,  and  turned 
toward  Broadway. 

One  glance  over  his  shoulder  showed  the  patrol 
wagon  still  standing  at  the  door  of  Madame  Os 
wald's,  a  few  houses  away,  and,  by  the  opposite  curb 
was  a  shabby  coupe,  with  its  driver  on  the  box 
watching  the  excitement.  Men  were  running  up  to 
the  scene  of  the  raid;  one  large,  pompous-looking 
man  jostled  Fenton  and  nearly  knocked  him  down; 


26  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

but  at  last  he  was  free  of  the  crowd  and  walked 
south,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  fingers  burrowing 
in  the  diamonds.  Judging  the  lights  of  Broadway 
safer  than  dark  side  streets,  he  kept  down  to  the  Flat- 
iron  Building,  and  then,  looking  suspiciously  to  right 
and  left,  crossing  the  street  whenever  he  saw  a  pedes 
trian  approaching,  he  zig-zagged  to  Fourth  Avenue 
and  gained  Eighteenth  Street.  Once  a  bedizened 
woman  accosted  him  with  a  wheedling  voice.  Once 
a  shabby  loafer  hailed  him,  requesting  money  for  a 
cup  of  coffee.  .  .  .  "Up  against  it,  sir.  Can't 
get  work — nothing  to  eat  for  two  days."  Fenton 
did  not  reply.  The  burden  of  his  treasure  was  a 
horror  and  a  menace;  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  never 
reach  the  restaurant.  But,  at  last,  he  entered  the 
swinging  doors  and  sat  down  at  a  table  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  Here  was  respite  for  a  while — till  the 
woman  should  arrive — if  she  ever  did  arrive.  What 
if  she  did  not  ? 

He  ordered  beer  and  pretzels  and  took  up  a  copy 
of  the  Fliegende  Blaetter  to  distract  his  thoughts. 
The  German  letters  danced  on  the  page.  The  pic 
tures  had  no  meaning.  Then,  seeing  a  ragged  copy 
of  "Melton's"  on  the  table  he  took  it  up. 

It  was  a  tired  looking  old  magazine,  half  the  pages 


SCHEFFEL   HALL  27 

torn,  spotted  with  eggs  and  gravy,  having  evidently 
been  left  in  the  restaurant  by  some  patron,  and  read 
to  death  by  subsequent  guests.  He  turned  the  pages 
listlessly,  his  mind  on  other  things  than  storiettes 
or  descriptive  articles.  But,  when  he  came  to  the 
pages  of  fair  women  he  stopped  suddenly  at  a  half 
page.  It  was  the  desecrated  portrait  of  the  Girl — his 
wonderful  girl  with  the  whimsical  smile  and  the 
level  eyebrows.  His  heart  stopped — then  he  glanced 
at  the  caption  under  the  half-tone.  Half  of  it  was 
gone.  What  remained  read  as  follows : 

"Miss  Belle  Ch 
One  of  the  season's  most" 

"Belle  Ch — "  it  was  maddening.  Then,  in  a  flash, 
he  recalled  the  fortune  teller's  prediction.  What  was 
it  Madame  Oswald  had  said?  "B.  C— Belle,  or 
Blanche,  or  Bessie — she's  in  your  life  current — 
you're  going  to  marry  her — and  marry  with  money." 
Strange  how  the  girl  pursued  him!  Would  fate  in 
deed  bring  them  together?  He  cut  out  the  half  page 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  There  was  no  time  to  muse 
upon  this  fancy,  his  present  situation  was  too  com 
pelling.  He  resumed  his  lookout  for  the  mysterious 
woman  who  had  promised  to  meet  him. 


28  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

He  had  been  there  a  scant  half  hour  when  he  saw 
her  enter  the  door  and  give  a  quick  glance  about  the 
room.  Seeing  Fenton,  she  walked  smiling  toward 
his  table. 

"Thank  God,  you  got  here  all  right !"  she  said  as 
she  sat  down.  "I  had  a  narrow  escape,  myself.  The 
police  came  in,  but  found  no  evidence  to  hold  me. 
I  told  them  I  was  rooming  in  the  house  and  knew 
nothing.  All  the  same  I  have  been  followed,  and  I 
daren't  take  the  gems.  You  will  have  to  help  me 
further." 

"See  here,"  said  Fenton,  "I've  had  enough  of  this. 
It's  a  little  too  suspicious  for  me,  and  I  don't  care  to 
get  into  trouble  with  the  police." 

"It's  not  the  police  you  have  to  fear  most,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Who  is  it,  then  ?"  he  demanded  nervously. 

"Won't  you  help  me?"  She  shot  a  languishing 
look  at  him.  Surely  she  was  beautiful — but  her 
beauty  had  a  savage  note  in  it — it  was  the  beauty  of 
a  tigress — there  was  strange  electric  force  in  her 
glance,  in  her  mysterious  smile. 

"I  won't  help  you  till  you  tell  me  what  it  all 
means,"  was  his  answer. 

She  kept  her  gaze  on  him  steadily,  and  spoke  as  if 


SCHEFFEL    HALL  29 

to  herself.  "I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you.  .  .  . 
It's  such  a  great  responsibility.  ...  A  family's 
good  name  is  in  your  power.  .  .  .  But  I  must 
have  help."  Still  she  stared  at  him. 

Fenton  turned  away  his  head,  embarrassed.  He 
was  upon  the  point  of  refusing  her  outright,  hand 
ing  over  the  jewels  and  making  his  escape  back  into 
the  peace  of  commonplace  things.  There  was  some 
thing  sinister  about  it  all.  It  was  too  dangerous. 
As  he  looked  abstractedly  toward  the  door  it  opened 
and  a  man  entered.  Fenton  felt  his  blood  run  cold. 
Who  was  the  man?  At  first  he  did  not  know,  and 
yet  there  was  something  familiar  about  him,  in  his 
furtive  walk  rather  than  his  face,  which  stirred 
vague  memories.  The  man  passed,  gave  a  blank 
stare  at  Fenton ;  and  Fenton  recognized  him. 

It  was  Mangus  O'Shea,  with  whom  he  had  lived 
in  South  Boston,  whom  he  had  always  been  told  was 
his  own  uncle.  The  man  had  grown  old,  but,  by  the 
small  reddish  eyes  and  the  broken  black  teeth,  Fen 
ton  knew  him  indubitably.  As  the  Irishman  passed 
it  was  as  if  a  chill  wind  had  swept  after  him,  mak 
ing  Fenton  shiver  with  apprehension.  At  this  look 
at  O'Shea,  the  first  for  so  many  years,  Fenton  saw 
him  as  a  cruel  and  an  evil  thing,  a  man  to  shun  and 


30  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

dread.  It  was  as  if  his  own  sub-conscious  mind  had 
been  for  years  pondering  a  problem  and  needed  but 
this  encounter  to  fan  hidden  coals  of  thought  into  a 
fierce  flaming  idea.  He  was  sure  now  that  O'Shea 
was  not  his  uncle,  sure  that  the  Irishman  knew  the 
secret  of  his  birth,  had  done  him  some  fearful 
wrong,  perhaps.  His  look  was  criminal;  Fenton, 
with  his  pockets  sagging  with  precious  stones,  felt 
his  peril  increase  every  minute. 

If  the  woman  opposite  him  had  noticed  the  epi 
sode  she  did  not  «how  it.  Her  eyes  were  still  on  him, 
but  her  thoughts  seemed  far  away.  Now  she  ap 
peared  to  awake  and  cast  some  horrid  apprehension 
from  her.  She  leaned  forward  and  touched  his  hand. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  why  and 
how  much  I  need  you.  If  you  have  any  chivalry  in 
your  nature  you  can  not  refuse  me." 

With  this  preamble  she  began  her  story. 

THE  DEAD  FARE 

I  am  going  to  make  you  my  confidant  in  two  se 
crets — one,  my  lover's  I  hoped  never  to  divulge. 
The  other  is  my  own  I  hoped  to  keep  that  for  ever 


SCHEFFEL    HALL  31 

also;  but  it  doesn't  matter  now.  ...  I  have 
negro  blood  in  my  veins;  I  am  an  octoroon.  Will 
that  kill  your  sympathy?  I  hope  not,  .  .  .  but  I 
have  to  tell  you — it  will  explain  everything. 

Perhaps  you  have  noticed  it  already.  Have  you 
suspected  me,  under  my  powder,  under  my  wig — • 
this  horrible  thing  that  I've  worn  so  long?  Well, 
my  lover  never  suspected  it,  I  know.  Perhaps  he 
wouldn't  have  cared  if  he  had.  I  like  to  think  so — 
for  he  loved  me. 

Gordon  Brewster  rescued  me  from  hell.  Do  you 
know  what  it  means  to  have  negro  blood  in  your 
veins — mixed  with  white — to  have  sensibility,  re 
finement — surely  I  have  that — and  to  be  for  ever 
outside  the  pale?  I  can  mingle  freely  with  neither 
my  own  people  nor  yours.  One  sort  is  too  low,  the 
other  too  high  for  me.  I  have  a  college  education — 
I  studied  for  four  years  at  Tuskegee  Institute — 
after  that  I  tried  to  teach.  Then  for  three  years  I 
was  alone  in  New  York,  seeing  almost  no  one.  I 
write  special  stories  for  the  papers,  never  going 
near  the  offices,  and  supporting  myself  fairly  well. 
I  have  a  little  apartment  on  East  Thirty-third  Street, 
with  a  colored  maid — I  am  afraid  of  any  other. 


32  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

It  doesn't  matter  how  I  met  Gordon  Brewster. 
There  is  no  need  of  your  knowing — that  part  of  my 
life  is  sacred.  But,  in  spite  of  everything,  we  fell  in 
love.  Can  you  imagine  what  that  meant  to  me  ?  A 
man  like  him — a  gentleman?  It  was  a  dream  come 
true — it  was  a  fairy  tale.  Can  you  see  how  I  hid  my 
secret — my  shame  ?  I  think  that  my  soul  is  as  white 
as  ...  well,  never  mind.  I  couldn't  tell  Gordon ; 
how  could  I  risk  it  ?  I  was  so  happy !  I  was  sure  of 
his  love,  but  I  was  afraid  of  something  stronger 
than  himself,  some  instinct,  some  inevitable  revul 
sion  of  race  feeling.  ...  I  didn't  know  how  it 
would  end — I  didn't  care,  only  that  I  resolved  never 
to  marry  him — unless  ...  I  wonder  if  I  could 
have  told  him  ?  .  .  .  Well,  it's  too  late  now  .  .  . 
All  I  have  now  is  his  honor  to  protect  and  cherish. 
The  happiness  of  knowing  him  was  all  I  ever  had. 
.  .  .  We  walked  all  that  three  years  on  the  edge  of 
a  precipice  that  he  never  saw.  ...  I  saw  it  al 
ways.  .  ,  . 

He  had  plenty  of  money,  at  first.  It  was  all  I 
could  do  to  prevent  his  spending  it  all  on  me.  No 
one  ever  knew,  no  one  ever  talked  about  us — no  one 
at  least,  except  an  intimate  friend  of  his,  Harry 
Hay. 


SCHEFFEL    HALL  33 

Mr.  Brewster  had  a  string  of  race  horses — no 
other  business — the  family  is  old,  and  rich.  He  put 
all  his  money  into  his  stable — and  lost  steadily.  If  I 
had  known  of  it  in  time,  I  might  have  saved  him 
.  .  .  but  it  was  not  to  be.  ... 

Last  evening,  at  about  half  past  seven  o'clock, 
when  I  was  dressing  for  the  evening,  the  door  bell 
rang,  and  Eliza,  my  maid,  came  in  to  tell  me  that 
Mr.  Brewster  had  come.  It  was  so  early  I  had 
not  expected  him  for  some  time  yet.  I  told  Eliza  to 
show  him  into  my  little  parlor  while  I  completed  my 
toilet.  As  she  helped  me  with  my  dressing  I  heard 
him  tramping  up  and  down  the  room,  and  wondered 
at  it. 

Before  I  had  finished,  he  knocked  on  my  door  and 
called  out  for  me  to  hurry.  His  voice  was  so  harsh 
and  excited  that  it  alarmed  me.  I  threw  my  things^ 
on  hurriedly  and  ran  in.  He  was  terribly  excited. 
He  told  me  to  get  rid  of  Eliza — he  wanted  to  talk  to 
me  alone.  So  I  sent  her  away,  and  he  walked 
nervously  up  and  down  till  she  had  left. 

Then  he  came  up  to  me  and  took  both  my  Hands 
in  his.  "Get  your  things  packed  up  at  once!" 
he  said.  "Enough  to  travel  with,  at  least.  I  am 
going  to  marry  you  right  away!  We're  going  to 


34  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

take  the  train  to  New  Orleans  to-night,  and  then  by 
a  fruit  steamer  for  Central  America.  I'm  dished !" 

No,  I  didn't  cry.  It  was  too  critical  a  situation. 
I  thought  then  that  the  time  had  come  when  I  would 
have  to  tell  him  my  secret.  Oh,  he  had  asked  me  to 
marry  him  scores  of  times;  I  had  always  been  able 
to  put  him  off  with  an  indefinite  answer.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  lose  him,  but  I  was  determined  not  to  be  his 
wife  until  I  had  confessed  what  I  was.  But  now  I 
saw  he  was  as  determined  as  I.  I  said,  "What  has 
happened,  Gordon?" 

Then  he  told  me — told  me  what  I  dread  to  tell 
you — only,  of  course,  you  see,  then  I  didn't  under 
stand  how  awful  it  was.  He  was  ruined.  His 
favorite  filly  had  cost  him  every  cent  he  had  in  the 
world,  and  he  owed  money  everywhere.  He  had 
even  ...  I  don't  think  I  need  tell  you  all  of 
it  ...  perhaps  that  can  be  covered  up,  too  .  .  . 
At  any  rate  he  was  desperate.  Nothing  would  do 
but  for  us  to  be  married  that  night  and  get  away 
before  he  was  arrested. 

Think  of  it!  The  temptation  to  be  alone  with 
him — his  wife — sure  of  one  friend  for  ever!  But 
the  cost !  I  couldn't  do  it !  How  could  I  think  of 
his  losing*  his  honor,  his  good  name — 


SCHEFFEL   HALL  35 

I  don't  know  what  I  said,  but  I  refused.  I  told 
him  that  he  couldn't  marry  me,  that  he  must  stay 
and  face  his  trouble — stay  and  make  a  fight  for  it — 
then,  when  he  was  square  with  the  world,  if  he 
chose,  I  would  be  his  wife — wasn't  I  right?  I  loved 
him  too  much ! 

I  never  had  time  to  finish.  You  see,  he  had 
brought  two  pieces  of  luggage  with  him.  One  was 
a  suit-case,  the  other  a  smallish  traveling  bag.  Be 
fore  I  had  ended  my  talk  he  was  fumbling  in  the 
bag.  I  didn't  realize  what  he  was  doing  till  he  had 
pulled  out  a  revolver.  His  look  was  horrible — he 
could  hardly  speak  through  his  passion,  but  he  cried 
out :  "Well,  if  I  can't  have  you— I'll  end  it  all  now !" 
Then  he  pulled  the  trigger — shot  himself  in  the  tem 
ple.  ...  I  fainted  on  the  floor  beside  him.  .  .  . 

The  next  thing  I  knew  the  bell  was  ringing.  I 
don't  know  how  long  it  had  been  ringing  ...  it 
was  some  time  before  I  could  get  up,  and  it  kept 
ringing  persistently,  horribly.  It  wouldn't  stop 
ringing.  ...  I  shut  my  ears  to  it,  hoping  who 
ever  was  there  would  go  away  .  .  .  but  the  bell 
kept  on  ringing  .  .  .  can  you  hear  it?  Gordon 
dead  on  my  parlor  floor,  and  the  bell  ringing  .  .  , 
God ! — I  can  hear  it  yet  ...  ringing. 


36  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

I  managed  to  open  the  door  part  way — a  crack — 
and  saw  Harry  Hay — Gordon's  best  friend — the 
only  one  who  knew  of  our  friendship. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said,  "is  Gordon  here?" 
He  pushed  past  me — I  couldn't  answer — he  got  into 
the  parlor — and  saw.  ...  I  sat  down  on  the  sofa 
and  began  to  cry,  then  ...  it  was  such  a  relief 
to  have  somebody  there.  I  couldn't  look  .  .  . 
Gordon  was  dead,  sure  enough.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  it.  ... 

He  felt  of  Gordon's  heart  .  .  .  and  closed  his 
eyes.  .  .  .  Then  he  told  me  Gordon  had  been  to 
see  him  yesterday  to  borrow  money.  Harry  Hay 
didn't  have  it,  and,  not  knowing  how  serious  it  was, 
had  refused.  Then,  afterward,  hearing  a  few  things 
about  Gordon's  affairs,  he  had  raised  a  few  thou 
sands  in  a  hurry  and  had  come  to  offer  it  to  him 
.  .  .  knowing  Gordon  would  be  at  my  place.  .  .  . 
Think  of  it!  Ten  minutes  too  late.  .  .  .  wasn't 
it  ironic?  Harry  was  a  good  friend,  God  knows.  .  .  . 

Harry  Hay  was  wonderful  .  .  .  what  I  would 
have  done  alone,  I  don't  know.  Of  course,  the  sui 
cide  itself  was  awful  enough;  but  for  Gordon  to  be 
found  in  my  room,  in  the  room  of  an  octoroon! 
Think  of  the  scandal !  It  would  be  terrific !  .  .  . 


SCHEFFEL   HALL  37 

Then,  there  were  Gordon's  debts,  his  dishonesty. 
.  .  .  It  couldn't  be.  I  plead  with  Harry  to  find 
some  way  out.  Then  we  discovered  the  jewels,  and 
we  understood  how  far  poor  Gordon  had  fallen ! 

They  were  in  the  traveling  bag  which  he  had 
opened  to  take  the  pistol  from.  It  was  half  full. 
The  Brewster  jewels  .  .  .  thousands  of  dollars' 
worth  of  them.  .  .  .  Gordon  had  taken  them 
from  the  family  safe.  He  had  the  combination,  and 
his  parents  were  away  from  home,  in  Europe,  or 
rather,  they  were  expected  back  any  day.  Well,  we 
talked  it  over.  What  could  we  do?  I  took  a  dose 
of  strychnia  and  it  braced  me  up.  .  .  .  Finally 
Harry  thought  of  a  plan. 

"There's  a  hack  stand  around  the  corner,"  he 
said.  "I'll  go  round  there  and  see  if  I  can  jolly  the 
driver  into  renting  his  carriage.  If  I  can,  perhaps 
we  can  make  it.  If  not,  the  thing  will  have  to  come 
out.  It's  our  only  chance,  anyway."  So  he  left  to 
try  it.  I  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and  went  into 
my  room  and  lay  on  my  bed  thinking  .  .  .  you 
can  imagine  how  my  mind  worked.  ...  I  could 
see  Gordon  lying  on  the  floor  as  plainly  as  if  I  were 
in  that  room  with  him  .  .  .  hours  seemed  to  go 
,by  before  Harry  Hay  rang  the  bell. 


38  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

When  I  opened  the  door  I  didn't  know  him  at 
first;  I  was  terrified.  He  had  on  a  cab  driver's 
smelly  coat  and  old  high  hat,  borrowed,  I  don't 
know  how — I  believe  he  told  the  cabby  it  was  a  prac 
tical  joke.  ...  He  told  me  to  get  on  my  hat  and 
coat  and  wait  for  him  in  my  room.  He  went  into  the 
parlor.  .  .  .  Once  he  came  to  my  door  and  asked 
for  warm  water  and  towels.  Then  he  returned  for 
cotton  wool  .  .  .  Oh,  God!  ...  I  didn't  dare 
ask  him  what  for.  .  .  .  The  third  time  he  knocked 
he  told  me  that  everything  was  ready.  I  gulped 
down  a  drink  of  brandy,  clenched  my  teeth  and  went 
in.  ...  I  wish  I  could  ever  forget  what  I  saw. 
.  .  .  Gordon  was  huddled  on  the  sofa,  his  hat  and 
gloves  were  on  ...  he  seemed  to  be  asleep  .  .  . 
his  head  was  turned  away  .  .  .  the  hole  in  his 
temple  was  filled  with  cotton.  ...  I  felt  myself 
fainting  again,  went  to  the  bath  room  and  dashed 
my  face  with  water,  then  returned.  .  .  .  Harry 
had  the  hall  door  open. 

Well,  we  got  the  body  down-stairs  somehow,  one 
supporting  each  arm.  ...  I  held  Gordon  while 
Harry  looked  out  to  see  if  there  was  any  one  who 
might  see  ...  then  we  carried  him  into  the  cab. 
.  .  .  We  got  the  body  on  to  the  seat  and  I  fol- 


SCHEFFEL    HALL  39 

lowed  and  sat  down  and  held  it  up.  ...  Then 
Harry  ran  up-stairs  for  the  suit-case  and  bag,  threw 
them  into  the  floor  of  the  cab,  got  on  the  box,  and 
we  drove  off. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  drive,  I  wonder  ?  Past  the 
Waldorf-Astoria,  past  Sherry's  and  Delmonico's,  in 
and  out  through  a  stream  of  automobiles  and  car 
riages  ...  the  body  lurched  and  swayed  .  .  . 
once  it  fell  on  the  floor — I  had  to  lift  him  up.  Past 
the  Cathedral,  the  great  hotels  at  the  plaza,  and  then 
we  plunged  into  the  Park  ...  it  was  cool  and 
dark  .  .  .  my  last  ride  with  Gordon  Brewster 
.  .  .  the  last  time  I  would  touch  his  hand !  It  was 
the  last  service  I  would  ever  do  for  him,  I  thought, 
.  .  .  but  there  is  still  another  .  .  .  you  must 
help  me  ...  can  you  have  the  heart  to  refuse, 
after  this?  .  .  . 

Gordon  had  lived  alone  in  the  Brewster  house  on 
Seventy-second  Street,  with  nobody  but  an  old  care 
taker — Flint,  his  name  is — I  didn't  quite  trust  him, 
but  he  was  our  only  hope.  Would  Flint  consent  to 
help  us?  That  was  the  question;  if  he  would,  we 
could  manage  it.  We  stopped  at  the  house,  and  Harry 
Hay  left  me  alone  and  went  in  to  break  the  news  to 
the  old  man.  ...  He  was  gone  some  time.  He 


40  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

must  have  paid  Flint  money — big  money.  Had  that 
body  been  any  one's  but  Gordon's,  I  would  have 
died,  or  lost  my  senses  right  then.  The  suspense,  you 
know.  But  how  can  you  abhor  the  body  of  one  you 
love  ?  Our  last  ride  together  .  .  .  was  over. 

Harry  Hay  came  out  at  last  with  Flint,  who  was 
shivering  with  terror,  expostulating.  Harry  Hay 
took  one  arm  of  the  body,  Flint  the  other — touched 
it,  that  is,  and  then  ran  back  into  the  house,  sobbing, 
terrified.  .  .  .  Aren't  men  cowards?  ...  I 
had  to  help  .  .  .  the  body  was  stiffened  with  the 
cold  ...  we  had  to  fairly  drag  it  into  the  house 
.  .  .  the  boots  scraped  on  the  sidewalk  ...  at 
the  basement  entrance,  Flint  was  white  as  ashes, 
holding  the  door  .  .  .  then  into  the  shooting  gal 
lery,  where  Gordon  had  his  bowling  alley,  his  foils 
and  gloves  .  .  .  and  rifles.  .  .  .  We  laid  him 
on  the  floor.  .  .  . 

Harry  Hay  took  a  target  pistol  from  a  case  and 
asked  the  way  to  the  coal  cellar  ...  he  went 
with  Flint  through  a  little  low  door  .  .  .  then  I 
heard  a  shot.  My  God!  It  made  me  shriek,  my 
nerves  were  so  on  edge.  It  was  only  Harry  shooting 
into  the  coal  to  empty  the  cartridge.  He  came  back 
and  laid  the  pistol  down  beside  the  body.  .  .  . 


SCHEFFEL    HALL  41 

Then  I  turned  away,  sick.  He  was  removing  the 
cotton  ...  we  were  afraid  the  wound  wouldn't 
bleed.  .  .  .  Oh,  God !  ...  it  bled  fast  enough. 

Flint  was  told  to  wait  fifteen  minutes,  then  tele 
phone  to  the  nearest  police  station.  .  .  .  He 
was  to  s'ay  he  had  heard  a  shot  .  .  .  that  Gor 
don  had  let  himself  in  alone  while  Flint  was  up-stairs 
.  .  .  that  he  probably  was  practising,  as  he  often 
did.  You  see,  he  was  a  noted  shot  ...  we 
hoped  the  death  might  perhaps  pass  as  accidental 
.  .  .  that  was  the  plan.  ...  I  think  it  worked 
all  right,  .  .  .  but  the  police  suspect  something 
I  think.  .  .  .  Did  you  read  the  papers  ?  There 
was  a  notice  .  .  .  there  is  to  be  an  inquest 
.  .  .  the  house  is  guarded, 

We  came  out,  at  last.  Harry  Hay  got  up  on  the 
box  and  drove  off.  I  felt  relieved.  So  far  as  we  knew, 
nobody  had  seen  us  come.  I  thought  it  was  all  over, 
the  strain  of  it,  the  horror,  and  my  strength  began 
to  go  ...  I  collapsed  ...  it  had  been  too 
much.  ...  I  was  roused  out  of  a  sort  of  stupor 
by  finding  myself  slipping  to  the  floor  as  we  slewed 
round  a  corner.  When  I  tried  to  get  up  my  feet 
struck  something — the  suit-case  and  bag.  Do  you 
see?  We  had  been  so  worked  up  over  the  thing,  so 


42  FIND  THE   WOMAN 

excited,  so  nervous,  we  had  forgotten  to  leave  Gor 
don's  luggage  at  the  house.  Both  of  us  had  forgot 
ten — God  knows  we  had  enough  else  to  think  about 
— it  isn't  strange  we  forgot.  Well,  I  thought  it 
wouldn't  matter  much  about  the  things — only 
clothes.  I  was  too  upset  to  remember  what  was  in 
the  small  bag. 

Then,  as  we  passed  an  electric  light  I  happened  to 
look  down  at  my  feet.  The  small  bag  had  become 
unfastened  in  some  way,  and  the  whole  floor  of  the 
cab  was  covered  with  jewels!  .  .  .  You've  seen 
them,  too — on  the  floor — you  know  how  I  must  have 
felt.  Thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  jewels!  I 
gathered  them  up  and  stuffed  them  into  the  bag.  At 
the  next  street  lamp  I  looked  and  found  more  in  the 
corners,  and  still  more  ...  it  seemed  as  if  I'd 
never  find  them  all.  .  .  .  First  I  thought  I'd  stop 
Harry  Hay  and  tell  him,  .  .  t  but  I  waited  till  we 
got  to  my  house,  .  .  .  then  I  told  him. 

What  were  we  to  do?  We  couldn't  take  them 
back;  it  was  too  late,  then,  for  the  police  had  un 
doubtedly  been  notified — there  would  be  officers 
there,  and  the  coroner's  men.  Harry  Hay  was  get 
ting  nervous  about  the  cab-driver,  and  anxious  to 
return  the  carriage.  He  told  me  that  I  would  have 


SCHEFFEL   HALL  43 

to  see  about  the  jewels — told  me  to  telephone  Flint 
and  see  what  could  be  done  to  return  them  safely, 
so  that  no  one  would  know  they  had  been  taken. 
...  It  was  a  tremendous  responsibility  for  me, 
but,  to  save  Gordon's  honor,  I  consented  to  do  it. 

I  got  Flint  on  the  telephone,  after  a  while,  and 
told  him.  He  was  awfully  excited,  and  said  he  had 
found  the  safe  door  open,  and  had  suspected  the 
theft.  He  proposed  that  I  should  carry  the  jewels 
up  to  his  brother's  house  in  Harlem,  where,  as  soon 
as  he  could  get  away,  he  would  meet  me.  Then  he 
would  return  them  to  the  safe  and  lock  the  combina 
tion.  No  one  would  ever  know.  But,  owing  to  the 
coroner,  he  couldn't  get  away  till  late  to-night.  .  .  . 
I  promised  to  come.  .  .  . 

I  tried  to  sleep  to-day,  .  .  .  but  how  could  I 
forget?  .  .  .  After  I  had  concealed  the  suit-case, 
my  mind  went  over  and  over  the  horror  of  it  all,  and 
I  thought  I  should  go  mad  .  .  .  the  forenoon  was 
bad  enough — but  the  afternoon  was  worse.  .  .  . 

As  I  was  trying  to  eat  my  dinner  the  bell  rang. 
Eliza  came  back,  grinning,  to  say  a  man  wanted  to 
speak  to  me.  ...  I  couldn't  understand  why  she 
was  laughing.  Then,  when  I  saw  him  .  .  .  for  a 
moment  my  heart  stopped  beating.  I  thought  it  was 


44  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Harry  Hay,  in  the  cabman's  coat  and  top  hat  again. 
...  It  was  as  if  I  had  to  go  through  that  horrible 
ride  again.  ...  I  couldn't  believe  my  sight.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  cab-driver  himself  ...  he  had  vicious 
cross  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  began  with  a  horrible,  sneering  grin,  to  tell  me 
that  my  friend  had  damaged  the  cab.  .  .  .  I  de 
nied  knowing  anything  about  it,  but  he  said  he  had 
followed  Harry,  and  had  watched  at  the  corner  .  .  . 
he  had  seen  us  coming  out  .  .  .  with  Gordon. 
Think  of  it!  For  one  moment  I  couldn't  tell  how 
much  he  knew,  and  I  was  tempted  to  kill  him  then 
and  there  ...  I  almost  wish  I  had !  .  .  .  Then 
he  spoke  of  "my  friend  with  the  jag,"  and  I  saw  he 
didn't  know  the  truth.  But  he  knew  something 
queer  had  happened.  He  said  he  wanted  a  hundred 
dollars.  ...  I  gave  it  to  him  and  told  him  to  go 
away.  Wasn't  I  a  fool  ? 

Of  course  it  was  a  fatal  thing  to  do.  .  .  .  The 
moment  I  had  done  it  I  was  in  despair.  He  would 
be  sure  something  wrong  had  happened  ...  he 
would  come  again  .  .  .  and  again  ...  he 
would  find  out.  ...  I  went  wild. 

I  didn't  dare  stay  at  home  any  longer,  then;  and 
so,  putting  all  the  jewels  loose  into  a  velvet  work- 


SCHEFFEL   HALL  45 

bag,  I  hid  that  in  a  large  mink  muff  and  went  out 
...  I  didn't  know  where.  ...  I  decided  to  go 
to  some  restaurant,  or  to  a  theater — anywhere  to  be 
in  a  crowd,  safe  .  .  .  and  wait  until  Flint  could 
take  the  things.  .  .  . 

I  had  scarcely  turned  from  Thirty-third  Street 
into  Fourth  Avenue,  when  I  saw  a  cab  driving  up 
slowly  behind  me.  ...  I  was  afraid  it  was  the 
man,  but  was  not  sure.  ...  I  walked  hurriedly 
along  ...  he  followed  .  .  .  like  a  horrible 
creeping  thing. 

Why  didn't  I  take  a  car?  Oh,  I  don't  know!  I 
was  distracted  .  .  .  and,  anyway,  he  would  have 
followed  me.  ...  I  turned  west  at  Twenty-ninth 
Street  .  .  .  the  cab  crawled  along  after  me  .  .  . 
down  Broadway — I  couldn't  shake  it  off.  I  turned 
into  Twenty-sixth,  and  for  a  few  minutes  I  thought 
I  had  lost  him.  ...  I  crossed  Seventh  Avenue, 
past  little  bake-shops,  groceries,  cobblers'  cubby 
holes  and  sticky-faced  children.  Then,  half  way  up 
the  block,  came  a  cab  jogging  along  toward  me.  I 
was  terrified ;  I  lost  my  head — I  turned  and  ran.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  cross-eyed  cab 
man.  I  knew  him  now,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 
...  I  became  confused,  fearing  he  would  stop 


46  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

me  .  .  .  discover  the  jewels.  ...  I  looked 
about  for  some  escape,  saw  a  fortune-teller's  sign, 
and  ran  up  the  steps.  The  front  door  was  unlatched. 
I  went  in  and  darted  up-stairs.  ...  I  had  lost  my 
reason,  now.  ...  I  was  acting  through  blind  in 
stinct  .  .  .  taking  the  first  chance  that  occurred 
to  me.  .  .  . 

Up  two  flights,  and  I  came  to  a  door  ajar.  I  went 
in  and  locked  it.  Then  I  looked  about  for  a  place  to 
conceal  the  jewelry.  Not  a  closet,  nor  a  cupboard, 
nor  a  bed.  ...  I  knelt  to  rip  up  the  carpet,  think 
ing  I  could  stuff  the  things  underneath,  when  I  heard 
a  pounding  down-stairs.  ...  I  got  up  and  grabbed 
the  muff — the  jewels  came  flying  out  of  the  bag  and 
scattered  all  over  the  floor.  Then  I  looked  up  and 
saw  your  face !  God,  how  you  terrified  me !  .  .  . 
Well,  you  know  the  rest. 

For  some  minutes  neither  spoke.  The  girl,  as  if 
relieved  of  some  physical  burden,  sighed,  and  rested 
her  head  on  her  hand,  gazing  at  the  young  man. 
Fenton  looked  at  her  amazed  at  her  story.  He  un 
derstood,  now,  something  of  her  strange  beauty — 
the  sensuous  charm  of  the  octoroon  spiritualized  by 
love.  That  beauty  which  had  before  been  tantalrz- 


SCHEFFEL    HALL  47 

ing,  troublesome,  urgent,  disturbed  him  no  more. 
He  looked  through  it  to  the  woman  whose  character 
had  been  revealed.  With  a  quick  toss  of  his  head  he 
reached  over  and  held  out  his  hand.  She  took  it 
without  a  word,  and  smiled  sadly. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"Take  the  jewels  to  Flint's  rendezvous,  five-fifty- 
five  West  One  Hundred  and  Forty-sixth  Street." 

"You  think  it  is  dangerous  ?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  That  cabman  is  still  tracking  me. 
But  you  don't  lack  courage,  I  know." 

"I  think  I'll  try  it,"  said  Fenton  calmly.  "I'll  do 
my  best,  at  any  rate.  Where  can  I  find  you  to  let 
you  know  the  result?" 

"I  don't  dare  go  home,"  said  the  octoroon.  "I'll 
take  a  room  at  the  King  William  Hotel,  and  you  can 
telephone  me  there.  Call  for  Miss  Green." 

She  rose,  cast  a  look  about,  and  added :  "If  there 
is  anything  I  can  ever  do  for  you — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Fenton.  "You'd  bet 
ter  get  away  now  while  you  can.  Good  night." 

She  bowed  to  him  soberly,  gave  him  another  long, 
heartbroken  look,  and  then  walked  away. 

Fenton,  freed  from  the  potent  charm  of  her  per 
sonality,  looked  about,  almost,  wondering  if  she  had 


48  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

indeed  been  there  at  all.  The  German  restaurant 
seemed  to  be  the  abode  of  the  commonplace — how 
could  Romance  have  entered  ?  All  about  were  peace 
ful,  prosaic  patrons,  intent  upon  their  meal.  .  .  . 
Then  he  remembered  O'Shea.  Was  he  still  there? 
He  scanned  the  people  at  the  tables,  one  by  one.  No. 
Fenton  felt  relieved.  His  eyes  fell  idly  upon  a  stout, 
muscular  looking  man  leaning  against  a  table  near 
him.  He  wore  a  shepherd's  plaid  suit.  A  protuber 
ance  behind  his  hip  looked  as  if  it  might  be  a  con 
cealed  revolver.  Fenton  wondered  if  he  were  a 
detective.  .  .  .  But  the  time  had  come  for  him 
to  act,  himself,  and  he  rose  to  go. 


IV 
THE  LIARS'    CLUB 

HOW  OUR  AMATEUR  ADVENTURER  FELL  A  VICTIM  TO 

HIS  OWN  INEXPERIENCE,   WAS  RELIEVED  OF  HIS 

TREASURE,  AND  FELL  IN  WITH  A  PRECIOUS 

COMPANY 

FULLY  convinced  of  the  truth  of  this  extraordi 
nary  woman's  tale,  and  with  all  the  chivalry  of  a 
romantic  youth  aroused,  John  Fenton  set  out  to  re 
store  the  jewels.  With  his  overcoat  pockets  still 
clumsy  with  the  treasure,  he  left  Scheffel  Hall  and 
went  out  into  a  chill,  misty  night,  intent  upon  his 
adventurous  errand.  What  danger  lay  in  wait  he 
did  not  know,  nor  care.  He  was  no  longer  a  poor, 
unknown  draftsman;  he  was  a  knight-errant  bent 
upon  the  rescue  of  imperiled  honor.  The  city  had 
become,  of  a  sudden,  strange,  mysterious;  every 
shadow  was  a  suggestion  of  malice.  So  he  walked 
hurriedly  along  Eighteenth  Street  to  the  Subway 
entrance.  Once  he  turned  round,  and  saw  two  men 
following  him  ...  he  increased  his  speed.  The 

49 


50  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

lights  of  the  glazed  entrance  promised  a  safe  haven. 

His  haste,  however,  brought  disaster.  At  the  en 
trance  a  step  was  raised  a  scant  inch  from  the  bricks 
of  the  sidewalk,  upon  that  low  projection  his  toe 
caught,  and  he  fell,  sprawling,  hitting  his  forehead 
upon  the  iron  plate.  And  as  he  fell  his  overloaded 
pockets  disgorged  jewelry  and  precious  stones  all 
about  him.  For  a  moment  he  lay  there,  stunned, 
only  half  conscious. 

The  next  thing  he  knew,  two  men  were  helping 
him  to  rise.  His  head  was  buzzing,  blood  was  drip 
ping  from  his  face;  he  would  have  fallen  again  but 
for  their  assistance.  In  another  moment  he  smelt 
the  sickish  odor  of  chloroform,  and  he  lost  con 
sciousness  for  a  moment.  Before  he  went  off,  voices 
sounded  strangely  in  his  ears,  and  his  half-opened 
eyes  caught  sight  of  Mangus  O'Shea  supporting 
him  ...  he  was  too  dazed  even  to  realize  his 
danger. 

When  he  regained  partial  use  of  his  senses  he  was 
walking,  still  supported  by  the  two  men.  He  could 
scarcely  support  his  own  weight,  and  they  held  him 
up  by  sheer  strength  of  arm.  He  caught  a  few 
words. 

"There's  a  stable  round  the  corner.    I'll  get  a  cab, 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  51 

and  we'll  take  him  to  ..."  It  was  Mangus 
O'Shea  who  was  speaking. 

Then,  as  in  a  dream,  he  walked  on,  tottering.  It 
seemed  to  last  for  hours,  that  horrible  journey. 
Slowly  he  began  to  revive,  and  started  to  protest. 

"Hist!  He's  coming  round  again,"  said  another 
voice.  "Give  him  another  whiff."  A  damp  hand 
kerchief  was  held  hard  to  his  nostrils  for  a  few  sec 
onds;  he  struggled  weakly  and  went  back  into 
oblivion.  So,  alternately  walking  and  dozing  off 
again,  trying  to  shake  himself  free,  as  from  some 
awful  nightmare,  he  was  dragged  on,  and  on,  and 
on.  ... 

The  next  thing  he  knew,  he  was  in  a  cab.  This 
time  he  had  wit  enough  not  to  show  signs  of  reviv 
ing,  but  sat,  huddled  between  two  men,  listening. 
His  pockets  were  being  deliberately  rifled;  O'Shea 
was  filling  his  own  with  the  spoil  as  he  talked. 

"To  Peter  Stow's  loft,"  he  was  saying.  "Peter 
won't  be  there  to-night;  he'll  be  at  the  club,  telling 
his  fool  stories.  .  .  .  We  can  make  a  good  get 
away  .  .  .  take  his  pants  off,  and  he'll  stay 
awhile.  .  .  .  We'll  divvy  up  at  the  Norcross,  and 
catch  the  first  boat  over  the  pond." 

Then,  an  indiscreet  movement  of  Fenton's  head 


52  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

attracted  the  notice  of  his  captors.  The  chloroform 
handkerchief  was  pressed  firmly  to  his  nose  again, 
and  Fenton  knew  no  more.  *  *  * 

He  awoke,  he  had  no  idea  how  long  afterward, 
with  chilled  legs,  to  find  himself  lying  on  his  back, 
sick  with  nausea,  his  trousers  missing.  He  was  in 
some  dark  place,  and  could  see  nothing  except  at  one 
side  a  row  of  dim  spots  that  were  from  time  to  time 
obliterated,  one  by  one,  and  reappeared  again  like 
holes  in  the  dark,  admitting  the  merest  trace  of  light. 
He  was  not  out  of  doors,  though  the  floor  he  lay  on 
felt  as  if  covered  with  gravel.  There  was  a  close, 
unfamiliar  smell  in  his  nostrils,  and  in  his  ears  a 
confused  noise  like  cooing,  a  low,  persistent,  gut 
tural  sound  he  could  not  at  first  explain.  So  soon  as 
his  brain  cleared,  he  made  out,  by  the  fluttering  of 
wings  back  and  forth,  and  the  peep  of  chicks,  that 
he  was  in  some  sort  of  a  large  dove-cote  or  pigeon 
house.  Every  little  while  he  felt  a  sharp  peck  at  his 
bare  legs,  and  feathers  brushed  his  face.  ...  He 
reached  out  his  hand  cautiously,  felt  a  bird  slip 
away  from  him,  and  his  hand  fell  upon  some  small 
eggs,  still  warm  from  the  mother. 

He  lay  there  a  while  longer  in  wonderful  discom 
fort,  trying  to  puzzle  out  his  situation.  As  the  nau- 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  53 

sea  wore  off  he  arose  and,  stumbling  over  pigeons 
and  smashing  eggs  at  every  step,  groped  his  way 
toward  the  light  The  windows  were  too  small  for 
him  to  see  anything  outside.  He  started  to  explore 
the  garret.  Bang! — he  suddenly  fell,  just  escaping 
being  precipitated  into  a  hole  in  the  floor,  square, 
like  the  opening  for  a  ladder,  though  no  ladder  was 
there.  He  thanked  his  lucky  stars  that  he  had  only 
barked  his  shins,  and  rubbed  them  till  he  found  they 
were  sticky — whether  with  blood  or  broken  eggs  he 
could  not,  in  the  darkness,  be  sure. 

No  light  came  from  the  trap  in  the  floor — all  he 
could  see  about  him  were  vague  forms  that  flitted 
to  and  fro,  all  he  could  hear  was  the  monotonous, 
brooding  murmur  of  doves.  There  seemed  no  es 
cape  till  some  one  came.  He  shouted  aloud,  shouted 
again  and  again,  waited  and  listened.  His  overcoat 
was  gone,  and  the  pockets  of  his  coat  had  been  rifled. 
He  found  a  single  match.  Lighting  it,  he  gave  one 
glance  about,  which  revealed  nothing  more  than  his 
imagination  had  pictured — hundreds  of  pigeons  on 
the  floor,  on  the  rafters,  flying  hither  and  yon.  He 
was  trying  to  devise  some  means  of  escape,  yelling 
with  all  his  might,  meanwhile,  when  a  light  flickered 
in  the  hole  below  him,  and  a  voice  came  up  to  him. 


54  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Who's  there?" 

Fenton  stuck  his  head  through  the  trap,  and  dis 
cerned  a  spectacled  old  man  with  scrawny  beard, 
holding  a  lantern,  and  looking  up  at  him,  mouth 
agape  in  wonder. 

"Let  me  out,  for  heaven's  sake !"  Fenton  cried. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you,  anyway,  up  in  my  pig 
eon-cote?" 

"Come  up  and  I'll  explain.  I've  been  drugged 
and  left  here.  By  robbers !" 

"You're  drunk!"  said  the  old  man,  holding  the 
lantern  above  his  head.  Then  chuckling  inanely,  he 
walked  off,  to  return  with  a  ladder  which  he  lifted 
to  the  trap. 

Fenton  protested  volubly  against  the  accusation 
and  with  exclamatory  eloquence  described  what  had 
taken  place  after  having  left  the  restaurant.  The 
old  man  still  laughed  as  he  climbed  up. 

Fenton  grew  more  vehement,  but  his  tale  was  in 
credible.  The  old  man  sat  down  on  the  floor,  with 
his  feet  on  the  ladder,  and  roared  till  he  wept. 

"I  say,"  he  shouted,  "I  know  where  you  belong, 
and  there  you  go,  too,  and  that's  the  Liars'  Club, 
right  away.  That  story  will  get  the  prize  to-night, 
all  right.  Robbed,  eh?  Pockets  full  of  diamonds 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  55 

and  rubies  and  truck?  Fine!  Say,  by  the  time  we 
get  down  there  you  can  touch  that  tale  up  a  bit  and 
make  it  hum !  Never  drunk  in  your  life,  then  ?  Say, 
you  certainly  must  have  been  up  against  some  merry 
jags  this  evening!  Well,  I  like  a  practical  joke  as 
well  as  any  one,  provided  it  ain't  on  me.  Come  on 
down,  and  I'll  have  you  initiated  right  away !" 

"But  I've  got  to  hurry  up  to  Harlem!"  Fenton 
insisted.  "I  must  give  notice  right  away  that  the 
jewels  have  been  stolen." 

"You're  coming  with  me  to  the  Liars'  Club  first !" 
the  old  man  repeated. 

"What  the  devil  is  that  ?"  Fenton  wondered  if  he 
had  to  do  with  a  crazy  man. 

"Oh,  just  a  crowd  of  good  fellows  that  meet  every 
night  to  swap  yarns,  that's  all.  We  have  to  tell  a 
tale  apiece,  lies  or  truth,  it  don't  matter,  so  long  as 
the  story's  good.  Only,  no  one  can  peep  about  any 
thing  afterward.  That's  the  only  rule;  that,  and  no 
newspaper  men.  Because  why;  some  of  our  stories 
come  pretty  near  being  the  truth — not  like  this  fairy 
tale  of  yours—  "  and  he  poked  Fenton  in  the  ribs. 

"Well,  I  have  no  time  for  fooling  around.  I  don't 
care  how  much  fun  you  have.  You  must  get  me  a  hat 
and  a  pair  of  trousers  somewhere,  and  let  me  go!" 


56  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Not  a  bit  of  it ;  don't  you  think  of  it !"  The  old 
man  grew  surly.  "You  come  with  me,  or  you  go  out 
half  naked,  whichever  suits  you  best.  But  if  you're 
a  good  fellow  and  don't  make  trouble,  I'll  see  if  I 
can't  get  you  something,  to  cover  your  legs."  And, 
so  saying,  he  went  down  the  ladder. 

Fenton  had  no  desire  to  go  abroad  upon  the 
street  in  his  present  condition.  A  combination  of 
blood  and  birds'  eggs  had  streaked  his  shins  with 
scarlet  and  yellow.  The  droppings  upon  the  floor  of 
the  garret  had  left  his  coat  a  sight  for  mirth.  More 
over,  he  found  he  had  no  hat,  and  no  money.  He 
picked  his  way  down  the  ladder,  therefore,  in  no 
jubilant  frame  of  mind,  but  determined  to  make  the 
best  of  his  situation.  Perhaps  some  of  the  members 
of  this  extraordinary  club  would  take  his  tale  seri 
ously.  But,  willy-nilly,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
follow  his  chuckling  guide.  Peter  Stow,  the  pigeon 
fancier,  led  the  way  down  a  flight  of  stairs,  and 
through  a  door  in  the  rickety  partition  abruptly  into 
the  next  stable  loft. 

A  whoop  of  laughter  greeted  his  entry,  as  Fenton 
found  himself  in  a  large  room  filled  with  tobacco 
smoke,  roughly  fitted  up  with  straw  chairs  and  a 
long  table.  About  a  keg  of  beer  in  the  corner  a 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  57 

group  of  men  turned  in  amazement  to  see  his  ridic 
ulous  figure,  and  came  forward  to  make  a  hilarious 
inspection  of  him. 

The  pigeon  fancier  introduced  him.  "Gents, 
here's  the  prize  live  liar  of  the  evening,  captured, 
after  a  hard  struggle,  in  my  pigeon  loft,  making 
omelets  and  murdering  my  squabs.  I  say  keep  his 
story  till  the  last;  cause  why,  it's  dead  sure  for  the 
prize."  He  turned  to  Fenton  and  exhibited  him  as 
if  he  were  a  curiosity. 

"Gentlemen,  I've  been  robbed !"  Fenton  exclaimed 
angrily.  "I  appeal  to  you  to  give  me  assistance !" 

"Don't  spoil  the  point  of  the  story!"  cried  the  old 
man. 

"I  had  a  fortune  of  precious  stones  in  my  pockets 
— I've  been  captured  and  drugged— 

A  heavy,  horsey  looking  man  with  a  square  jaw, 
in  a  striped  sweater,  stepped  forward  and  laid  a 
massive  hand  on  Fenton's  shoulder.  "See  here, 
kiddo,  you  follow  instructions,  see  ?  They's  enough 
of  us  here  to  handle  you  all  right,  if  you  kick  up  a 
row.  You'll  have  your  chance  in  good  time.  Sit 
down  in  that  chair  and  have  a  mug  of  beer  and  a 
pipe.  Now  then,  boys,  we'll  have  another  story." 

Seeing  by  the  cynical  faces  that  further  objections 


58  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

would  be  useless,  Fenton  sat  down  and  hid  his  bare 
legs  under  the  table.  Beer  was  set  in  front  of  him, 
and  tobacco  offered.  It  was  evident,  now  he  had 
time  to  observe  the  crowd,  that  the  meeting  had  been 
interrupted  by  his  advent,  so  he  decided  to  make  the 
best  of  it  and  watch  his  chance  for  escape. 

The  man  addressed  as  the  next  speaker  was  a 
merry-looking,  red-faced  man  of  forty,  with  a  patch 
over  one  eye.  By  his  fat  stomach  and  his  tinted 
nose  he  had  apparently  once  lived  well  and  at  the 
expense  of  others.  Fenton  labeled  him  as  a  second- 
rate  gambler  or  a  confidence  man,  now  out  of  the 
running.  His  voice  was  good-natured  and  easy.  He 
stuffed  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  stared  at  the  presi 
dent  with  his  good  eye,  and  proceeded  to  tell,  with 
winks  and  chuckles,  his  story. 


THE   TIME  OF   HIS  LIFE 

My  mother's  cousin  was  in  town  last  Sunday. 
Seventy-two  years  old,  and  never  been  in  New 
York.  Lives  down  on  Cape  Cod.  Keeps  a  sort  of 
tavern  for  summer  boarders,  runs  a  general  mer 
chandise  store,  lets  cat-boats  and  horses,  the  main 
Henry  B.  Manager  of  the  town  of  Barnstable.  He 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  59 

came  up  to  have  the  time  of  his  life — at  seventy- 
two — can  you  beat  it? 

I  used  to  know  Uncle  Jerdon  when  I  was  a  boy. 
He  was  postmaster  then,  in  the  days  when  there 
was  so  little  mail  that  he  could  read  off  the  names 
of  all  the  letters,  morning  and  evening,  beginning 
with  "Huldah  Hoxey"  and  ending  with  "Jeremiah 
Phillpots,  all  done!"  Nowadays  the  whole  town  is 
full  of  summer  folks,  and  the  natives  pick  'em  good 
and  plenty  while  the  weather  lasts. 

Uncle  Jerdon  was  a  deacon  in  the  Methodist 
church,  and  always  led  the  experience  meetings  with 
telling  how  big  a  sinner  he  used  to  be.  But,  lord, 
everybody  knew  he'd  never  done  anything  worse 
than  swear  at  his  old  blue  mare  when  she  wanted  to 
stop  at  the  watering  trough.  "Go  'long,  thee  darned 
old  slut!"  was  his  idea  of  profanity.  You  see,  his 
folks  brought  him  up  to  be  a  Quaker,  and  early  in 
fluence  stuck. 

Well,  those  experiences  he  used  to  make  up  were 
the  only  outlet  for  as  good  a  little  streak  of  hellish- 
ness  as  any  man  ever  had.  They  were  the  only 
chance  he  had  to  make  good  as  a  sport,  and  it  kind 
of  got  on  his  nerves.  I  remember  going  down  to 
Barnstable  for  a  vacation,  once,  a  couple  of  years 


6o  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

after  I'd  moved  to  New  York.  Say,  the  old  man's 
questions  would  have  made  you  yelp.  He  knew  no 
more  about  life  than  a  Brooklyn  baby,  but  he  made 
it  up  in  curiosity.  I  recall  how  he  used  to  take  me 
into  a  corner  behind  the  shoe  counter  and  ask  me, 
"Jared,  did  thee  ever  go  on  a  bust?"  And  what  I 
hadn't  done  I  had  to  invent,  the  same  as  him.  Lord, 
I  made  myself  out  a  red-hot  hellion  for  his  benefit! 
I  liked  the  old  man. 

Well,  he  talked  with  all  the  drummers  that  came 
along,  asked  about  the  Tenderloin  and  the  theaters 
and  masked  balls — he  took  a  particular  fancy  to 
masked  balls,  did  the  old  man — and  all  the  sporty 
eating  houses  in  this  old  burg.  The  drummers  must 
have  strung  him  good  and  plenty.  When  I  saw  him 
next  he  seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  millionaires 
skated  down  Broadway  in  dominos  and  red  masks, 
and  artists'  models  in  scant  attire  rioted  on  the  trol 
ley  cars.  Madison  Square  Garden,  to  him,  was 
something  like  the  three-ringed  palace  of  Nebuchad 
nezzar  or  who's-this  that  built  the  tower  of  Babylon 
in  Sodom — or  was  it  Gomorrah?  He  was  dying  to 
see  a  real  gambler. 

Well,  leading  such  a  confounded  virtuous  life  in 
Barnstable  that  it  got  on  his  nerves,  he  figured  it  out 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  61 

that  he'd  just  got  to  have  one  good  fling  at  real  life 
in  the  Metropolis  to  get  it  out  of  his  blood,  and  then 
settle  down  to  the  cat-boats  and  prayer  meetings  and 
clams  and  be  good  for  ever  after.  They's  nothing 
for  itching  like  scratching,  and  he'd  never  be  satis 
fied  till  he'd  had  his  time. 

So  he  started  to  sow  his  belated  wild  oats  crop, 
with  the  cunning  of  a  bank  cashier  contemplating  a 
trip  to  Morocco.  He  squared  his  insurance  and  his 
mortgage  debts,  laid  in  a  good  stock  of  doodads  for 
the  summer  trade,  bought  his  wife  a  new  silk  dress 
and  filled  in  details  all  along  the  line  till  they  wasn't 
a  duty  undone  nor  a  debt  unpaid.  Meanwhile,  little 
by  little,  he  began  to  salt  away  the  coin  for  the  trip 
to  the  great  city.  Boston  wasn't  half  wicked  enough 
for  him,  lord,  no!  He  was  going  to  do  it  big  and 
fling  his  hard-earned  money  into  the  Great  White 
Way.  So  he  scrimped  and  saved  for  pretty  near 
three  years,  and  in  that  time  he  scraped  up  a  thou 
sand  dollars,  which  was  what  the  drummers  had  told 
him  a  good  spender  would  need  for  one  week  in 
Gotham.  On  top  of  that  he  had  to  collect  enough 
for  the  trip  back  and  forth — something  like  fifty 
dollars. 

Ain't  that  the  beginning  of  a  bumper  crop  of 


62  FIND  THE   WOMAN 

adventure  ?  Can  you  see  that  old  hypocrite,  singing 
psalms  every  Sunday  and  Thursday  night,  and  read 
ing  the  "Police  Gazette"  behind  the  counter  in  be- 
tween-times  ? 

I  say,  when  I  met  him  at  the  train  I  near  laughed 
my  head  off.  If  you  can  imagine  a  healthy  sixteen- 
months  infant  calling  for  cocktails  and  smoking  a 
Carolina  Perfecto  at  the  Hoffman  House  bar,  you'll 
understand  how  it  struck  me.  Well,  he  wanted  me 
to  show  him  the  sights,  no  limit,  and  him  to  pay  all 
the  expenses.  If  he  didn't  have  the  time  of  his  life, 
/  certainly  was  going  to. 

Well,  he  blew  in  on  a  Saturday  night,  and,  feeling 
a  little  groggy  myself,  I  induced  him  to  turn  in  at 
"the  La  Marquette  Hotel,  and  said  I'd  call  around 
next  forenoon,  and  not  to  do  anything  rash  till  he 
saw  me.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  hold  him  in;  he 
wanted  to  do  Chinatown  right  away  that  night,  see 
Chuck  Connors,  do  a  roof  garden  and  see  somebody 
shot  and  go  on  a  joy  ride  with  chorus  girls.  Finally 
I  persuaded  him  to  go  in  and  take  a  long  breath  be 
fore  he  jumped  into  the  gayety  of  city  life. 

"But  it'll  be  Sunday,"  says  he. 

"They  ain't  no  such  thing  as  Sunday  in  New 
York!"  I  told  him.  "They  ain't  had  a  Sunday  for 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  63 

forty  years !"  And  I  believed  it.  A  lot  I  knew  about 
it,  rounder  as  I  was.  Well,  you  don't  always  know 
how  the  other  half  lives!  Live  and  learn! 

I  slept  late  that  night  and  .didn't  get  round  to  the 
hotel  till  about  one  o'clock  next  day — Sunday. 
There  he  was  in  the  lobby,  with  a  big  carpet  bag 
and  a  face  like  a  drowning  horse.  Buncoed?  Well, 
yes,  but  you'll  never  guess  how.  This  is  what  hap 
pened. 

He  had  got  up  at  about  6  q.  m.  like  all  hayseeds, 
and  went  down  to  the  news  stand  in  his  slipper  feet 
for  a  morning  paper.  Then  who  did  he  run  into, 
bang !  but  the  Methodist  minister  who  had  preached 
at  Barnstable  four  years  before.  A  Reverend  Wil- 
ley,  it  was.  And  Uncle  Jerdon  simply  couldn't  get 
'away.  He  said  he  was  on  business,  buying  boats  or 
something,  but  the  Reverend  insisted  he'd  got  to  go 
to  church  with  him  that  morning.  They  was  no 
visible  way  out  of  it,  with  Uncle  Jerdon's  pious  rep 
utation,  and  so,  cursing  inside,  he  pulled  his  Sunday 
face  and  trotted  along,  clean  over  to  Brooklyn. 
Wasn't  that  rubbing  it  in  ? 

It  was  a  clean  red  brick  church  they  went  to,  with 
a  new  minister  who  was  crazy  on  Foreign  Missions. 
And  at  the  end,  after  the  sermon,  just  before  the 


64  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

contribution,  the  minister  turned  himself  loose  to 
persuade  money  out  of  stingy  pockets. 

"Just  think  of  it !"  he  says,  "one  dollar  will  pro 
vide  red  calico  enough  to  cover  the  nakedness  of 
twelve  of  our  heathen  sisters!  One  dollar  will  buy 
tooth  brushes  enough  for  a  whole  savage  tribe  in 
the  South  Seas !  One  dollar  will  provide  a  Bible  to 
convert  a  cannibal  king,  and  one  dollar  will  buy  a 
marriage  certificate  for  poor  pagans  who  have  previ 
ously  lived  in  sinful  polygatude !"  He  got  the  house. 
Misers  who  had  never  put  in  a  dime  before  sweetened 
up  the  plate.  Uncle  Jerdon  had  to  make  good.  It  cost 
him  a  pang  to  spend  a  cent  for  the  Lord  on  this  trip 
— this  was  his  time  with  his  long-lost  cousin,  the 
devil.  But  he  dipped  into  his  pocket  and,  thinking 
a  dollar  would  make  a  good  show,  threw  a  bill  into 
the  plate. 

The  deacon  counted  the  contribution  while  the 
congregation  sang  "From  Greenland's  icy  mountains 
to  India's  coral  strand!"  There  was  a  hush  while 
the  audience  rubbered.  Then  the  treasurer  of  the 
church  tiptoed  up  with  them  religious  squeaky  shoes 
to  the  pulpit  and  whispered  behind  his  hand  to  the 
minister.  The  minister  got  up,  coughed,  and  rolled 
his  eyes  to  heaven. 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  65 

"Beloved  brethren,"  he  said,  "the  Lord  hath 
moved  us  in  wondrous  manner  this  day,  and  has 
shed  His  blessing  upon  our  efforts.  The  sum  col 
lected  at  the  contribution  is  one  thousand  and 
twenty-five  dollars  and  thirty-one  cents.  The  Lord 
be  praised!" 

"Amen!"  from  the  congregation,  and  everybody 
looked  at  everybody  else  to  see  if  Carnegie  or  Rock 
efeller  was  there  in  disguise.  Uncle  Jerdon  was  as 
puzzled  as  anybody,  till  he  put  his  hand  into  his  vest 
pocket  and  felt  for  the  unbroken  thousand-dollar 
bill  he  had  put  aside  to  spend  on  the  primrose  path. 
It  wasn't  there !  He  had  put  it  into  the  plate,  think 
ing  it  was  the  one-dollar  bill  he  had  left  from  his 
traveling  expenses.  Can  you  beat  it  ? 

And  the  man  with  the  patch  on  his  eye  reached 
into  his  hip  pocket  for  a  well-gnawed  plug  of  to 
bacco  and  took  a  plenteous  bite. 

The  roars  of  laughter  had  not  subsided  before  the 
big  president  rose  with  a  surly  face  and  pointed 
dramatically  across  the  table  to  where  a  young  man 
sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  lamp,  his  chair  tilted  back 
against  the  partition.  He  had  a  chubby  face  with  a 
huge,  good-natured  mouth,  and  had  been  puffing  in- 


'66  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

cessantly  during  the  recital,  as  if  he  wished  to  con 
ceal  himself  behind  a  cloud  of  smoke.  A  couple  of 
boxes  emptied  of  their  Havana  cigarettes  and  the 
butts  of  some  two  dozen  on  the  floor  testified  to  his 
industry.  Now  every  one  turned  to  look  at  him. 
He  stared  back  at  them  without  embarrassment. 

"Who  is  that  chap?"  demanded  the  president.  "I 
never  saw  him  here  before." 

"Oh,  this  is  Jack  Richmond,"  said  a  thin,  cadav 
erous  looking  youth  with  a  chauffeur's  cap,  who  had 
been  coughing  behind  his  hand.  "Friend  of  mine. 
He's  all  right,  I  guess.  Met  up  with  him  at  a  mov 
ing  picture  show.  Want  to  hear  my  yarn?" 

"He's  a  reporter!"  thundered  the  president.  "I 
can  tell  by  the  shape  of  his  head.  Whenever  you  see 
a  chap  with  a  long  egg-shaped  coco  that  hangs  over 
behind,  you  can  bet  he  writes  for  the  papers." 

"Rats!"  said  the  chauffeur.  "Richmond's  all 
right,  I  guess." 

But  before  he  had  finished,  the  massive  president 
strode  over  to  the  suspicious  character,  took  hold  of 
the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  threw  it  open.  With  a 
quick  movement  he  snatched  a  card  from  the  young 
man's  vest.  "Look  at  that !"  he  yelled.  "What  did 
I  tell  you?  The  Morning  Item — reporter's  card! 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  67 

Now  get  out  of  here !  Against  the  by-laws  to  have 
newspaper  men  present.  These  stories  don't  get  into 
print  if  I  know  it."  He  shook  his  heavy  hand  in  the 
young  man's  face.  "Will  you  leave  easy — or  hard  ?" 

"I  think,"  said  the  chubby  young  man,  rising 
hastily  and  drawing  on  a  soft  hat,  "I'll  say  good- 
by  while  the  walking  is  good.  I  apologize  for  hav 
ing  that  card.  It  was  lent  me  by  a  friend  to  get 
inside  the  fire  lines  while  my  own  house  and  family 
was  burning  up  alive,  last  night.  But  of  course, 
being  a  liars'  club,  I  have  no  place  here,  and  the 
plain  unvarnished  truth  is  at  a  discount.  I'm  a  vic 
tim  of  circumstantial  evidence.  Good  day,  gents! 
Saint  Ananias  guide  thee!"  And  he  made  his  exit 
two  feet  ahead  of  the  toe  of  the  president's  brogan. 

"Say,  that's  a  shame !"  said  the  thin  young  chauf 
feur,  scratching  his  head.  "We  lost  a  peach  of  a 
good  story  when  he  threw  him  out,  I'll  bet!  I'll 
have  to  hump  myself  if  I  want  to  make  up  for  it. 
My  turn  next,  ain't  it  ?" 

"If  you've  got  anything  on  your  chest,"  the  presi 
dent  announced  affably,  "this  here's  the  time  to 
cough  it  off." 

"My  text  is  the  Psychological  Rule  of  Three," 
said  the  chauffeur. 


68  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Say,  this  ain't  no  Browning  Club!"  objected  the 
pigeon  fancier. 

"No  Browning  sharp  could  ever  explain  the  psy 
chology  of  three  consecutive  coincidences,"  said  the 
youth.  "It's  a  case  for  Henry  James." 

"Is  he  a  member?"  asked  the  ex-gambler.  "I 
never  heard  of  him.  What  is  he,  a  chofer,  or  what  ?" 

"He  is  a  literary  chauffeur,  as  you  have  guessed. 
And  he  always  exceeds  the  speed  limit.  When  he 
comes  in  next,  I'm  going  to  put  it  up  to  him  straight : 
Why  is  it  that  no  man  can  stand  three  strokes  of 
lightning  without  expecting  a  fourth?  I'll  put  it 
another  way.  When  a  man  has  three  bad  lucks  run 
ning,  he'll  manufacture  the  fourth  himself  in  trying 
to  escape  what  he  considers  inevitable." 

"Faster,  kid,  faster!  Your  act  is  flopping!  Steer 
out  of  the  tall-word  contest,  and  harness  on  to  your 
pet  prevarication." 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  the  thin  one.  "Take  it  from  me, 
the  only  living  gasoline-eater  who  never  eloped  with 
a  rich  man's  wife,  I'm  telling  you  the  unenameled 
truth.  I've  got  a  tale  with  a  wallop.  This  is  a  song 
of  my  brother's  submerged  E-flat  luck.  I'm  re 
minded  of  the  trilogy  of  sad  events  by  the  announce 
ment  in  to-day's  papers  of  the  death  of  a  young 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  69 

swell  named  Brewster,  who  blew  his  brains  out  yes 
terday  on  account  of  losing  his  wad  backing  a 
bandy-legged  mule  named  Belcharmion." 

Fenton  looked  up  in  amazement.  Surely  the  name 
of  Brewster  was  familiar!  Then  the  other  name 
rang  queerly  in  his  ears.  He  thought  of  the  picture 
in  his  pocket — "Belle  Ch—  Could  Charmion  by 
any  streak  of  chance  be  the  name  of  his  dream-girl? 
He  began  to  tremble;  he  could  not  take  his  eyes 
from  the  chauffeur's  face,  as  the  thin  young  man, 
coughing  between  sentences,  told  to  the  circle  about 
him  his  story. 

THE    RULE   OF    THREE 

My  brother  Bill  had  been  running  a  hog  ranch 
near  Temple,  Arizona.  Despite  the  fact  that  this 
particular  town  is  ten  degrees  hotter  than  the  boiling 
lava  of  Vesuvius,  he  had  prospered  sufficiently  to 
retire  a  year  ago  with  a  bank  roll  of  eleven  thousand 
dollars.  With  the  wad  and  a  hunger  for  something 
to  eat  better  than  canned  peaches,  cactus  and  Bull 
Durham  tobacco,  he  pulled  up  stakes  for  Chicago, 
spent  a  couple  of  days  in  the  Annex  Bar  and  hit  the 
trail  for  the  Big  Noise  at  the  mouth  of  the  Hudson. 


70  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

When  it  came  time  for  him  to  quit  the  buffet  car 
and  hunt  his  mat,  he  mosied  back  through  the  train 
until  he  came  to  a  sleeper  named  Belcharmion.  In 
it  he  had  lower  berth  number  three — a  fact  which 
may  or  may  not  be  significant.  Upon  awakening  in 
the  morning  he  tried  to  negotiate  some  eight  dollars' 
worth  of  ham  and  eggs,  with  a  grape  fruit  on  the 
side,  but  was  attacked  with  a  violent  nausea.  He 
retired  to  the  observation  car  and  remained  there, 
shivering  and  shaking  with  ague  until  the  flyer  rolled 
into  New  York.  Then,  piling  into  a  taxicab,  he  told 
the  driver  to  take  him  to  the  nearest  hospital.  The 
doctors  analyzed  him  hurriedly,  pronounced  his 
trouble  a  sort  of  cross  between  typhoid  and  the 
bubonic  plague — clapped  him  into  bed  in  ward  num 
ber  three,  and  there  he  remained  for  three  weeks. 
Three  separate  and  distinct  times  he  would  have 
died  but  for  the  thought  of  the  pink-haired  nurse  and 
his  bank  roll.  It's  a  pity  he  didn't  take  the  count 
then  and  there.  He  would  have  missed  a  lot  of 
trouble. 

On  the  third  of  May  the  doctors  declared  him 
graduated,  and  with  seventy- four  hundred  dollar 
notes  in  his  wallet  he  wobbled  to  the  exit,  where  he 
collided  with  a  weak-eyed  quik  whose  shaky  legs  and 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  71 

shop-worn  appearance  stamped  him  as  a  fellow-con 
valescent. 

"Just  getting  well?"  says  Bill. 

"Yep,"  says  the  live  dish  rag. 

"Where  you  bound  for  ?"  says  Bill  again. 

"Me  for  the  race  track,"  says  the  other,  leaning 
against  the  elevator  shaft  and  panting  for  ozone. 
"The  docs  have  all  my  coin,  but  I'm  good  for  a 
marker,  and  before  the  last  goat  comes  rompin' 
home  to  the  paddock  my  pants  is  goin'  to  be  lined 
with  yellow-backs  or  it's  me  for  a  Brodie  into  the 
brine." 

Bill  hungered  for  excitement  enough  to  hire  a 
benzine  buggy,  and  together  the  two  cripples  went  to 
the  race  track.  In  the  first  race  Bill  backed  a  Hag- 
gin  horse  named  Tatters  and  spilled  a  hundred.  In 
the  second  a  skate  named  Melon  Boy  went  to  pieces 
in  the  stretch  and  stung  my  brother  twelve  hundred 
dollars.  Bill  was  feeling  blue,  but  his  friend  was 
talking  pert.  He  was  a  couple  of  centuries  ahead, 
and  together  they  walked  into  the  paddock  to  take  a 
squint  at  the  ponies  and  jocks  that  were  getting 
ready  for  the  third  race. 

"See  that  swell  girl  there  with  the  black  plumes, 
the  big  eyes,  the  parasol  and  the  aristocratic  ankles  ? 


72  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

That's  Miss  Charmion,  a  society  pet/'  says  the  little 
fellow,  who  was  so  weak  he  could  hardly  stand. 
"They's  a  zebra  in  this  race  named  after  her.  Bel- 
charmion's  the  filly,  and  young  Brewster,  the  son  of 
the  millionaire,  owns  the  beast." 

"Sufferin'  Spanish  mackerel!"  thinks  Bill.  "Ty 
phus  fever  in  berth  three  of  a  sleeping  car  named 
Belcharmion.  Miss  Belle  Charmion  on  the  third  of 
May,  and  a  horse  named  Belcharmion  in  the  third 
race !  What's  the  answer  ?" 

The  bell  sounded,  and  everybody  started  to  run 
toward  the  grand  stand  or  betting  ring.  Bill  waited 
long  enough  to  take  another  look  at  the  filly,  then 
hustled  for  the  ring  as  fast  as  his  bum  legs  would 
carry  him.  Belcharmion  was  favorite  at  three  to 
five.  Removing  a  single  hundred-dollar  note  from 
his  roll  and  sticking  it  in  an  inside  pocket,  Bill 
handed  the  entire  remainder — five  thousand,  two 
hundred  dollars — to  a  greasy-faced  bookie,  got  a 
card  showing  that  he  played  the  filly  across  the 
board,  and  went  out. on  the  lawn  to  hold  his  breath. 

They  got  away  in  a  bunch  and  swung  round  the 
track  so  fast  that  Bill  couldn't  see  which  was  ahead. 
Coming  into  the  stretch  ten  million  people  com 
menced  to  pound  each  other  on  the  head  and  yell 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  73 

"Come  on  you  Belcharmion !  Oh,  you  Belchar- 
mion !"  and  Bill  knew  his  nag  was  in  the  lead. 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  finish,  just  as  the  lead 
ers  were  right  in  front  of  Bill,  the  filly  stumbled, 
turned  a  double  somersault,  slid  into  the  fence  and 
killed  her  jockey.  My  brother  crumpled  up  on  the 
grass.  When  he  came  to,  somebody  had  frisked  him 
for  the  hundred,  and  he  was  flat  broke  in  a  strange 
land.  He  hunted  up  his  hospital  friend,  who  slipped 
him  a  wad  of  sympathy,  a  five-case  note  and  his  ad 
dress. 

"Come  round  and  sleep  in  my  folding  bed," 
said  he. 

Bill  said  he  would. 

The  address  was  a  hundred  and  twelve  East 
Twenty-sixth  Street,  and  at  six  o'clock  that  night 
Bill,  after  a  fifteen-cent  meal  at  Child's  and  a  ride 
on  the  Third  Avenue  "L,"  finally  located  the  place 
and,  half  dead  with  weakness  and  a  grouch,  made 
for  the  entrance.  His  mind  was  so  fussed  that  he 
didn't  notice  anything  until  his  feet  collided-  with  a 
rubber  door  mat  in  the  outer  lobby.  On  it  in  white 
letters  appeared  the  name  of  the  house — "Belchar 
mion." 

"Not  for  mine!"  thinks  Bill.     "Nothing  with  that 


74  FIND  THE   WOMAN 

tag  to  it  will  ever  make  a  hit  with  me.  I'm  onto  my 
luck,  this  time.  If  I  enter  this  cursed  shack,  I'll  be 
skun  out  of  my  clothes  in  a  pinochle  game,  or  be 
arrested  for  blackmail,  or  fall  in  love  with  a  blond 
chambermaid,  or  pitch  down  the  elevator  well,  or 
something  as  fierce.  That  name  Belcharmion  is  the 
wrong  recipe  for  my  health,  I've  found  that  out!" 
And  so  he  turns  out  in  a  hurry,  thanking  his  stars 
that  he'd  found  sense  at  last. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  sidewalk  somebody  yelled 
"Look  out!"  and  whing! — a  forty- foot  swing  stage 
hit  him  on  the  top  of  the  head  for  a  ten  week's  trip 
to  the  hospital  again.  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  Moral : 
Don't  dally  with  the  Rule  of  Three ! 

The  iteration  of  the  name  Belle  Charmion  smote 
upon  John  Fenton's  ears  like  the  ringing  of  a  bell  far 
away  in  some  secret  chamber  of  his  mind,  behind 
some  locked  door.  Why  should  that  name  excite 
him?  He  did  not  know.  It  seemed  to  be  vaguely 
familiar,  but  he  could  place  it  nowhere  in  his  mem 
ory.  He  was  puzzling  over  it  when  his  attention 
was  called  to  the  next  speaker  of  the  evening — then, 
suddenly,  a  new  thought  excite-d  him. 

The  man  addressed  by  the  president  was  a  cross- 


THE  LIARS*   CLUB  75 

eyed,  coarse-faced  individual,  who,  by  the  cut  of  his 
coat  and  the  battered  top  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 
was  indubitably  a  cab-driver.  Immediately  Fenton's 
mind  went  back  to  the  Octoroon's  story.  She  had 
been  pursued  by  a  cross-eyed  cabman — could  this  be 
the  man  ?  Fenton  listened  eagerly  to  see  if  anything 
in  his  speech  would  confirm  this  surmise. 

"This  is  a  perfectly  true  story,"  the  cabman  was 
saying. 

"Stop  there !"  the  president  thundered.  "If  a  story 
is  funny,  it's  not  true,  and  if  it's  true,  it's  not  funny. 
That  principle  has  been  proved  in  this  club  beyond 
peradventure.  Cut  out  this  1-knew-the-man-that- 
died'  stuff !  We  want  no  true  stories  here :  we  want 
good  ones!  Wherever  a  good  story  travels,  there's 
always  some  fool  who  wants  to  tack  it  onto  some 
maternal  aunt  of  his — and  ten  to  one  he  actually 
believes  what  he  says.  All  good  stories  come  from 
Herodotus,  and  the  best  we  can  do  is  to  cut 
'em  over  to  a  nineteen  hundred  and  eleven  model, 
touch  'em  up  with  rouge  and  powder  and  send  'em 
out  as  The  Latest.'  No  man  can  invent  a  good 
story :  but  he  can  improve  a  poor  one.  No  true  tale 
is  fit  to  tell — the  naked  truth  must  be  adorned." 

Peter  Stow,  the  pigeon  fancier,  awoke  from  his 


;6  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

doze.    "Well,  is  this  a  Browning  Club  or  not?"  he 
asked,  sleepily.    "Why  not  play  ball?" 
-  "I  second  the  motion !"  said  the  chauffeur. 
The  president  nodded,  and  the  cab-driver  shifted 
his  cigar  from  one  corner  of  his  mouth  to  the  other 
and  began. 


THE    SLEEPY    BRIDEGROOM 

It  was  a  funny  story  how  young  Michael  Carnar 
von  got  married.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  wedding 
in  my  life. 

You  see,  young  Carnarvon  was  really  what  you 
might  call  roped  in.  The  Schufelt  girl  was  a  mani 
cure  working  in  the  Hotel  Persimmon,  and  from 
the  day  she  laid  eyes  on  him  she  began  to  wire 
things  up  to  marry  him.  I  s'pose  all  women  do  that, 
one  way  or  another ;  she  done  it  by  listening  instead 
of  talking.  When  he  began  to  call  on  her — she 
lived  over  on  Charles  Street  with  her  mother — she 
kept  him  talking  about  himself  till  he  thought  she 
was  the  cleverest  girl  in  New  York,  which,  in  some 
ways,  she  was.  What  with  playing  the  innocent 
sympathetic,  keeping  her  mother  out  o'  the  way  and 
padlocking  her  temper,  which  was  something  sav- 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  77 

age,  she  got  him  going  till  he  popped  the  question. 
She  certainly  managed  it  great. 

Carnarvon's  folks  was  wild  when  they  heard 
about  the  engagement,  but  by  this  time  he  was  deaf 
and  blind  to  the  fact  that  the  Schufelt  girl  was  only 
after  his  money,  and  had  the  reputation  around 
Chelsea  village  of  being  a  regular  Rocky  Mountain 
catamount  when  she  got  mad.  Lord!  It  must  have 
been  a  strain  for  that  girl  to  hold  her  tongue,  some 
times,  but  she  never  boiled  over  till  after  the  wed 
ding.  You'd  have  thought  she  was  half-witted, 
almost;  she  was  so  tame  when  Carnarvon  was 
around.  But  Lord,  how  her  mother  used  to  catch 
it  when  he  left  the  flat! — and  her  mother  could  put 
up  a  pretty  good  jaw-fight,  too. 

Well,  three  days  before  the  wedding  Carnarvon 
had  to  work  like  a  donkey-engine  to  get  his  business 
straightened  up,  so  he  could  get  off  on  his  honey 
moon.  He  was  at  the  office  night  and  day  working 
himself  to  a  frazzle.  In  that  time  he  hadn't  slept 
more  than  three  or  four  hours,  all  told,  and  on  the 
morning  of  his  marriage  he  was  about  as  near  all 
in  as  a  man  can  be,  and  keep  awake.  In  fact,  he 
couldn't  keep  awake,  and  that  was  the  trouble.  They 
tell  me  that  last  forenoon  he  was  practically  walk- 


78  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

ing  and  talking  in  his  sleep.  Black  coffee  didn't  do 
no  good  at  all,  for  he'd  been  living  on  it  for  a  week, 
practically.  He  dictated  his  letters  staggering  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  every  time  he  sat  down  at 
the  desk  to  sign  his  name  to  'em,  the  typewriter  had 
to  stick  hat  pins  into  him  to  wake  him  up.  He  took 
snuff  to  make  him  sneeze,  he  washed  his  face  in 
cold  water  every  ten  minutes,  he  kept  the  windows 
wide  open — everything  he  could  think  of  to  brace 
him  up,  but  he  just  naturally  got  drowsier  and 
drowsier  every  minute. 

They  was  things  that  simply  had  to  be  done,  if 
he  was  going  to  git  off  next  day,  and  so  he  kept  to 
it  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  so  dopey  he  couldn't  talk 
American.  "Blub-blub"  was  about  all  he  could  say. 
It  was  something  awful.  His  clerks  implored  him 
to  let  them  finish  up,  but  he  didn't  dare  trust  them, 
so  he  stuck  to  the  ship.  At  six  o'clock  he  was  like 
a  living  corpse,  half  blind  with  sleep,  yawning  con 
tinually  and  having  to  be  hauled  up  off  the  floor 
every  five  minutes.  He  was  living  on  sheer  nerve. 
Blind  staggers  was  nothing  to  it.  But  he  left  to  go 
home  declining  help  from  the  boys — and  of  course, 
owing  to  ructions  in  his  family,  not  likely  to  get 
much  assistance  when  he  did  get  there. 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  79 

Well,  on  the  way  home  he  dropped  in  at  a  drug 
store  for  a  dose  of  something,  strychnia  or  some 
such  stuff,  to  brace  him  up  through  the  ceremony. 
After  that  he  didn't  care,  just  so  long  as  he  made 
good  with  the  minister.  How  he  asked  for  the  dope, 
I  don't  know.  He  must  have  said  something  about 
sleeping,  I  suppose;  but  anyway,  the  clerk  thought 
he  wanted  a  sleeping  draught,  and  he  gave  him  what 
turned  out  to  be  a  twenty  per  cent,  solution  of  mor 
phine.  See?  There  he  was,  hardly  able  to  see 
straight  anyway,  with  a  double  dose  of  dope  on 
top  of  it. 

He  took  a  cab  home,  and  the  driver  had  to  pry 
him  out  of  the  seat  when  they  got  there.  He  crawled 
up-stairs,  wondering  how  he  was  ever  going  to  make 
it  that  evening.  His  medicine  didn't  seem  to  help, 
much,  so  he  took  another  swig  at  it.  How  he  ever 
got  his  clothes  on,  his  man  can't  exactly  explain.  It 
was  a  job  for  an  undertaker,  not  a  valet.  But  after 
a  regular  nightmare  of  it  Carnarvon  started  for  the 
Schufelt  flat.  He  didn't  dare  take  a  cab  this  time, 
for  fear  he'd  be  found  asleep  and  they'd  think  he 
was  drunk.  So  he  walked.  It  must  have  been  hor 
rible.  Most  of  the  time  he  staggered  along  with  his 
eyes  shut,  hoping  he'd  run  into  somebody  who'd 


8o  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

punch  him  in  the  head  or  give  him  a  good  kick  to 
wake  him  up.  No  such  luck. 

Well,  he  got  to  the  Schufelt  flat,  somehow,  and 
just  before  going  in,  he  emptied  the  bottle  in  hopes 
it  would  carry  him  through  the  ceremony.  That 
last  dose  made  him  feel  as  if  he  was  living  inside  a 
blanket  soaked  in  molasses,  with  his  arms  and  legs 
tied.  Lord,  that  man  was  game! 

He  just  got  in,  and  that  was  about  all,  for  he 
stumbled  on  the  first  rug,  fell  feet  down  on  the  floor 
and  began  to  snore.  Mrs.  Schufelt  picked  him  up, 
and  she  and  Nanny  lugged  him  into  a  bed-room  and 
tried  to  wake  him  up.  By  this  time  he  was  just  mut 
tering  to  himself  something  like  "I  don't  give  a 
durn  for  anything.  I'm  tired  of  swimming  through 
jelly — blub,  blub — blub —  I  want  to  lay  down  and 
die  decent." 

Of  course  they  thought  he  was  drunk.  What  else 
was  they  to  think?  But  so  long  as  she  was  safely 
spliced  to  him,  Nanny  didn't  care — she  was  deter 
mined  not  to  make  a  miss  of  it,  and  as  soon  as  she 
was  Mrs.  Michael  Carnarvon  she  knew  she'd  give 
him  a  tongue-lashing  that  would  sober  him  up.  So 
they  slapped  wet  towels  at  his  face,  stepped  on  his 
toes,  tickled  the  soles  of  his  feet,  used  a  few  needles, 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  81 

brushed  up  his  hair  backwards,  and  dragged  him  in 
to  greet  the  friends  of  the  family.  .Wow!  He  tried 
to  crawl  on  his  hands  and  knees,  but  they  wouldn't 
have  it.  Everybody  thought  it  was  a  disgrace;  but 
he  was  rich,  and  that  always  explains  a  lot. 

After  he  was  introduced  to  the  minister  he 
melted  down  into  a  chair,  shut  his  eyes  and  opened 
his  mouth.  Nanny  pinched  him  good.  He  got  up, 
in  a  kind  of  a  trance,  fell  into  Mother  Schu felt's 
sister's  lap,  stepped  into  the  rubber  plant,  upset  a 
table  full  of  wedding  presents,  and  then  the  old  lady 
decided  to  hurry  things  and  get  the  agony  over. 
How  she  induced  the  minister  to  do  the  job  I  don't 
know.  Perhaps  it  was  the  hundred  dollar  bill  Car 
narvon  had  in  his  vest  pocket  did  the  trick.  Anyway, 
they  propped  him  up  on  each  side  and  one  behind ; 
and  the  parson  done  his  act.  Everybody  present 
swore,  afterwards,  that  they  heard  him  say  "I  will." 

And  as  soon  as  it  was  over  he  collapsed  and  they 
laid  him  out  on  a  sofa  and  covered  him  up  with  a 
table  cloth,  while  Nanny  changed  her  clothes.  The 
guests  went  into  the  dining-room  to  feed  and  drink 
his  health. 

Now,  whether  it  was  the  champagne  young  Car 
narvon  had  paid  for,  or  just  the  natural  tendency 


82  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

of  wedding  guests  to  play  the  goat,  I  dunno.  But, 
anyway,  they  fixed  up  a  joke  on  the  happy  pair. 
There  was  one  cut-up  there,  a  rising  young  plumber, 
he  was,  named  O' Square,  and  first  I  knew  of  the 
thing,  he  come  round  to  my  stand  and  wanted  to 
hire  my  hack.  It  was  him  what  put  me  onto  the 
whole  thing.  He  was  fairly  busting  with  it.  He  of 
fered  me  twenty  dollars  for  the  use  of  my  cab  and 
my  hat  and  overcoat,  and  I  surrendered.  Naturally, 
I  followed  round  the  corner  to  see  the  fun.  He  sent 
away  the  taxicab  Carnarvon  had  waiting,  and  went 
up-stairs  to  see  if  all  was  ready. 

The  rest  of  them  had  everything  fixed.  They  got 
young  Carnarvon  down-stairs,  holding  him  up  the 
way  you  do  a  drunk,  and  they  rammed  him  into  the 
cab.  Then  they  brought  down  Nanny,  who  was  be 
ginning  to  talk.  Lord,  you  ought  to  have  heard  her 
remarks — they  was  something  bloodthirsty.  The 
guests  only  screamed  and  laughed  at  her.  O' Square 
got  on  the  box — we  all  tied  up  the  trunks  with  rib 
bons,  and  off  they  went,  Nanny's  language  dripping- 
out  of  that  cab  like  a  leaky  watering  cart. 

O' Square  brought  back  my  cab  toward  one  o'clock 
next  morning.  He  didn't  say  nothing,  but  I  heard 
afterward  that  he  dumped  'em  out,  Carnarvon  dead 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  83 

asleep,  Nanny  fighting  mad,  and  the  trunks  covered 
with  old  boots  and  white  ribbons,  on  a  little  cross 
road  in  the  middle  of  Van  Cortlandt  park.  That 
was  his  idea  of  a  joke.  What  happened  after  that  I 
don't  know,  except  that  a  week  afterward  Michael 
Carnarvon  brought  suit  for  the  annulment  of  his 
marriage,  on  the  grounds  that  he  was  asleep  during 
the  ceremony. 

The  cross-eyed  cabman  paused,  and  felt  in  his  in 
side  coat  pocket.  "If  you  don't  believe  it,"  he  re 
marked,  "look  at  this  here  thing!  I  found  it  tucked 
into  a  nook  in  the  seat  cushion  of  my  cab,  when  I 
cleaned  her  out  the  next  day."  He  held  up  a 
locket — heart-shaped,  with  a  star  of  white  stones. 
It  flashed  like  a  handful  of  sparks  in  that  smoky, 
dusty  room. 

f  "I  ain't  sure  it  was  Carnarvon's  wedding  present  to 
his  wife,"  he  explained.  "It  wasn't  never  advertised 
for,  and  so  I  never  said  nothing  about  it.  You  know 
us  cab-drivers  has  got  to  have  some  perquisites." 

The  suspicions  which  had  arisen  in  Fenton's  mind 
at  first  sight  of  the  cross-eyed  cab-driver  were  con 
firmed  long  before  the  story  was  finished.  As  it 
progressed,  Fenton  was  amazed  at  the  man's  au- 


84  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

dacity  in  weaving  in,  point  after  point,  the  facts 
of  the  octoroon's  narrative. 

The  sleepy  bridegroom  could,  of  course,  be  none 
other  than  the  dead  fare,  Gordon  Brewster — the 
picture  which  the  cabby  had  seen  as  he  watched 
from  a  near-by  corner  was  almost  the  identical  one 
the  octoroon  had  described — the  tragic  truth  dis 
guised  in  this  comedy  recital.  As  chorus  after 
chorus  of  guffaws  applauded  the  tale,  Fenton  won 
dered  at  the  cleverness  of  the  man  who  was,  no 
doubt,  adapting  some  old  narrative  to  fit  the  needs 
of  his  case. 

At  sight  of  the  locket,  however,  Fenton's  thoughts 
took  a  new  turn.  The  ornament  had  a  mystery  of  its 
own  connected  in  some  incomprehensible  way  with 
his  own  life.  He  had  but  a  glimpse  of  it,  as  it  was 
displayed,  but  he  was  sure  there  was  no  mistake.  It 
was  exactly  the  same  as  the  one  he  recalled — first, 
during  that  half-forgotten  scene  on  the  ferry-boat, 
when  he  was  a  mere  child,  afterward  in  the  O' Shea's 
tenement,  after  they  had  come  to  New  York.  What 
did  it  mean?  How  did  the  cabby  really  get  it? 
There  was  only  one  possible  answer. 

Undoubtedly  it  was  one  of  the  Brewster  jewels, 
spilled  out  of  the  traveling  bag,  as  the  octoroon  had 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  85 

said,  while  the  dead  body  was  being  driven  to  Sev 
enty-Second  Street.  If  so,  the  cabby's  suspicions  of 
queer  work  must  have  gained  ground — he  had,  per 
haps,  already  communicated  with  the  police.  At  any 
rate,  Fenton  now  had  a  double  reason  for  wanting 
to  gain  possession  of  it,  and  he  was  determined  that 
at  the  first  opportunity,  he  would  attempt  to  get  it. 
He  would  watch  his  chance. 

With  all  this  flashing  through  his  mind,  it  did  not 
take  him  long  to  perceive  that  he  could  not  safely 
tell  his  own  story  before  the  driver.  Once  he  was 
connected  with  the  jewels,  the  cabby  would  be  on 
his  track.  He  determined,  therefore,  to  invent  some 
fantastic  tale — anything  would  do — which  might 
rescue  him  from  his  embarrassing  dilemma.  The 
cab-driver's  story  suggested  a  plot.  It  was  vague, 
but  he  relied  upon  inspiration  for  some  amusing  nar 
rative.  His  mind  was  already  busy  upon  the  fiction 
when  he  was  called  upon  for  his  contribution  to  the 
evening's  entertainment. 

"We  have  with  us  to-night,"  said  the  president, 
impressively — "Hooray!"  from  the  circle  of  au 
ditors — "a  newcomer  to  our  glorious  midst.  As  an 
amateur  liar,  we  expect  little — and  yet  the  gentle 
man's  costume  warrants  some  hope  of  amusement." 


86  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

He  turned  to  Fenton.  "Now,  bare-legs,  you  can 
spiel  your  tale.  What's  all  this  about  being  robbed 
of  seventeen  million  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds, 
anyway?  Make  it  short,  for  we're  getting  tired. 
And  don't  spare  the  ginger — we  need  to  be  waked 
up.  All  ready — fire  away !"  He  sat  down. 

Every  one  looked  at  Fenton,  and  laughed  again. 
He  did  not,  in  truth,  present  a  very  dignified  aspect. 
The  blood  and  egg-yolk  had  dried  upon  his  shins, 
and  he  had  brushed  some  of  the  dirt  from  his  coat 
— but  there  was  excuse  enough  for  mirth. 

"He  looks  like  a  bum  Highland  scavenger,"  was 
the  chauffeur's  comment. 

Fenton  invoked  the  muse  of  comedy,  and  rose  to 
his  feet.  "Of  course  that  yarn  about  the  stolen  mil 
lions  was  all  a  bluff.  I  wanted  to  get  away  quick, 
and  when  you  hear  my  lively  tale,  you'll  understand 
why  I  didn't  care  to  explain  just  how  many  different 
kinds  of  a  fool  I  was  to  our  friend,  the  aged  pigeon- 
charmer,  here.  It  was  bad  enough  as  it  was.  But  I 
see  you're  all  good  fellows,  and  perhaps  if  I  throw 
myself  wide  open,  you  may  be  moved  to  help  me 
out.  The  fact  is,  also,  that  the  cabby's  story  is  just 
enough  like  mine  to  encourage  me  to  go  ahead  and 
tell  the  truth." 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  87 

He  was  proud  of  himself.  Already  he  had  made 
an  impression.  From  the  looks  of  the  men  he  knew 
he  had  his  audience,  and  it  inspired  him.  He  gave 
free  rein  to  imagination,  therefore,  and  warming 
gradually  to  his  lie,  he  began  the  story. 


THE   THREE    WEDDINGS 

I  am  going  to  be  married  to-night — if  you  fel 
lows  will  help  me  out.  That  will  explain  why  I 
touch  lightly  on  parts  of  the  narrative.  I  haven't 
much  time  to  lose,  if  I'm  to  capture  my  blushing 
bride,  the  pride  of  Harlem — a  lady  you'll  excuse  me 
for  denominating  Miss  Daisy  Peach.  The  name 
don't  matter,  for  I  expect  it  to  be  Howich  by  twelve- 
one  to-morrow  morning.  My  name's  Claude  Ken 
sington  Van  Proul  Howich.  Age,  twenty-one.  All 
right.  Skip  the  love-at-first-sight  stuff,  skip  the  coy 
proposal  and  lovers'  quarrels,  skip  the  violets  and 
confectionery.  Most  all  men  make  love  alike.  Every 
chap  thinks  his  chicken  is  a  bird  of  paradise.  The 
only  difference  is,  I  know  mine  is. 

The  story,  therefore,  boils  down  to  a  question  of 
too  much  mother-in-law  before  marriage.  By  too 
much,  I  merely  insinuate  that  she  was  too  much  for 


88  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

me.  Why?  She  wanted  Daisy  to  marry  six  foot  of 
blonde  Englishman  with  a  decorated  name.  Call 
him  the  Honorable  Algernon  Mudde.  That'll  do 
fine.  Daisy,  being  foolish  about  me,  said  nay,  nay; 
and  set  the  date  for  our  nuptials.  In  fact,  she  named 
the  day  three  times.  Let's  take  'em  chronologically ; 
which,  being  interpreted,  oh  grave  and  reverend 
signiors,  means  each  by  one. 

Wedding  Number  One :  Parson  ready,  four  mil 
lion  guests  of  the  bride  arrived,  presents  set  out,  la 
beled  and  guarded  by  detectives  in  the  billiard-room. 
House  decorated.  Floral  arch,  orange  blossoms  ga 
lore,  potted  plants,  orchids.  Little  sisters  in  silk 
voile,  carrying  baskets  of  rose  leaves  to  walk  on. 
In  short,  everything  but  the  happy  groom,  which 
was  me,  who  was  fighting  his  way  into  an  elephant's 
dress  suit,  many  miles  away.  No  wedding  bells  for 
her.  Puzzle.  Here's  the  answer. 

Wedding  was  to  be  at  nine.  My  best  man,  think 
ing  me  sane,  sober  and  responsible,  had  promised 
to  call  at  eight,  with  a  taxi.  At  six-thirty  (as  I 
thought)  I  began  to  dress  for  the  execution.  Now, 
though  I  may  not  look  it  in  my  present  war-paint, 
I  keep  a  valet — or  rather  I  share  him  with  four 
other  chaps.  Up  to  date  that  valet  had  been  an  ex- 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  89 

pert,  but  at  seven  o'clock  he  began  to  go  crazy. 
I.  Spilt  a  bottle  of  mucilage  inside  my  union  suit 
— you  know  no  man  wants  to  wear  another  kind  of 
skin.  2.  Couldn't  find  a  clean  suit ;  valet  had  to  hike 
out  and  buy  one.  Red  flannels  was  all  he  could  find, 
and  me  to  be  married  at  nine !  3.  Upset  the  ink  all 
over  my  "King  of  Broadway"  dress  shirt.  Found 
every  other  white  shirt  was  three  sizes  too  small. 
Never  had  been  before.  Again  to  the  haberdasher's. 
Haberdasher  closed,  had  to  put  oh  a  soft  silk  ar 
rangement,  like  the  leading  man  in  a  musical  com 
edy.  4.  Laid  down  my  dress  coat  on  some  sticky; 
fly-paper  we  had  there  to  catch  early  crop  of  mos 
quitoes.  5.  Went  to  telephone  and  found  the  thing 
was  struck  deaf  and  dumb.  I  was  furious  by  this 
time,  paranoiac,  ready  to  chew  glass  and  split  blood. 

You  may  wonder  why  I  didn't  tumble  before 
this,  and  suspect  my  valet.  I  suppose  it  was  because 
I  was  dreaming  of  my  beauteous  bride.  Anyway,  it 
wasn't  till  I  sent  him  out  to  a  friend  to  borrow  a 
black  suit  that  I  began  to  think  anything.  Then  I 
went  out  to  the  elevator  boy  and  asked  the  time.  It 
was  nine  twenty-five!  That  blasted  menial  had  put 
back  my  watch  and  all  the  clocks  an  hour  and  a  half. 

.Well,  by  that  time  I  was  seeing  red.   I  went  down 


90  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

the  hall  and  pounded  at  every  door,  begging  for  a 
dress  suit.  Nobody  at  home,  or  only  shocked  fe 
males,  who  barricaded  the  entrance.  At  last  I  found 
a  Dutchman  who  let  me  in,  and  offered  me  a  suit  he 
had  owned  for  thirteen  years.  I  took  it  to  my  place 
and  got  into  it — I  wrapped  it  around  me,  so  to  speak 
— I  got  lost  in  it.  Fit  ?  It  would  have  fitted  a  Dino- 
saurus  better.  It  flapped  and  waved  about  me. "  I 
looked  like  the  last  potato  in  the  sack.  But  it  was 
my  last  hope,  and  in  that  mass  of  black  broadcloth 
I  made  my  appearance  at  the  Mansion  de  Peach,  to 
find  every  guest  gone,  the  old  man  swearing  mad, 
mother-in-law-to-be  calm  as  an  iceberg,  and  my 
Daisy  in  tears.  How  I  squared  myself  I  don't  know. 
I  sent  Miss  Peach  all  the  violets  in  the  world,  and 
we  postponed  the  wedding  for  a  week.  I  promised 
to  be  careful. 

When  I  got  back  I  found  my  valet  waiting  as  cool 
as  a  marble-top  table.  I  promised  not  to  murder 
him  if  he'd  tell  me  exactly  why  he  did  it.  What 
d'you  think !  Honorable  Mudde  had  tipped  him  one 
hundred  dollars  to  queer  me  for  the  festivity.  Well, 
it  was  worth  knowing.  Somewhere  around  the  con 
spiracy,  I  smelled  my  mother-in-law  but  I  couldn't 
follow  up  the  trail. 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  91 

Wedding  Number  Two :  No  valet  this  time,  you 
bet.  My  best  man  on  guard,  buttoning  me  up  and 
giving  good  advice,  telephoning  to  Central  for  the 
time  every  ten  minutes.  I  was  all  ready  to  start  at 
eight  o'clock  when  the  bell  rang  like  an  alarm  clock. 
We  didn't  hurry,  and  bing,  the  door  was  nearly 
blown  in.  Best  man  opens  the  door.  Enter  a  hoity- 
toity-chorus  girl  made  up  for  leading  ingenue,  and 
one  big,  big,  bull-necked  policeman. 

"That's  him,"  says  Tootsy  Footlights,  and  the 
cop  lays  a  fist  like  a  ham  on  my  shoulder.  What 
d'you  think?  Tootsy  sprang  a  song  about  my  hav 
ing  stolen  six  hundred  dollars  and  banged  her  eye  at 
Jack's  two  nights  before,  said  we  were  engaged,  but 
it  was  all  off,  and  "Arrest  him,  Mr.  Officer,  he's 
handsome,  but  he's  false!"  Protests  from  Yours 
Affectionately,  heap  big  talk  from  best  man.  No  go. 

Officer  McUgly  shows  a  warrant  for  my  arrest. 
I'm  properly  identified  and  if  I  want  to  go  to  the 
station  in  a  taxi  I  can — otherwise,  he'll  call  for  the 
patrol.  I  tried  to  coax  him  with  a  fifty,  but  it 
wouldn't  work.  My  best  man  flew  loose  on  a  search 
for  bail,  and  I  made  the  journey  to  jail.  The  ser 
geant  winked  when  I  told  the  marriage  story. 

I  telephoned  I'd  arrive  at  the  Peach  palace  in  a 


92  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

minute,  but  before  we  raised  the  hundred  dollars 
bail  the  wedding  was  a  fizzle.  Simultaneously, 
Tootsy  Footlights  wired  in  that  she'd  found  the 
ring  inside  one  of  her  rats,  and  she  wouldn't  prose 
cute.  Who  was  Tootsy?  Hired  by  Honorable 
Mudde,  of  course,  like  the  valet.  She  came  round 
afterward  and  told  me  all  about  it,  giggling,  and 
tried  to  get  me  to  take  her  out  to  dinner !  She  had  a 
nerve  like  a  frog.  No?  Yes?  Well,  such  are  the 
petted  favorites  of  the  mimic  world. 

The  next  day  I  got  a  session  of  live-wire  talk 
from  Daisy  Peach  that  gave  me  the  shivers.  "See 
here,  Claude,"  she  says,  "I'm  getting  tired  of  get 
ting  married  on  the  instalment  plan.  I  know  that 
ma  and  Mr.  Mudde  are  trying  to  queer  you,  but  if 
you  can't  beat  a  pink  Englishman  out  on  a  game  like 
this,  I'll  be  darned  if  I  don't  marry  the  Briton,  for 
he's  the  cleverest  man  of  the  two.  I  like  you, 
Claude,  and  in  times  of  peace  you  seem  to  make 
good.  But  the  war  is  on,  and  I'm  going  to  marry  the 
victor.  We'll  get  married  on  the  thirtieth  of  April, 
and  I'll  give  you  this  last  chance.  I  am  aware  that 
Mr.  Mudde  may  have  cooked  up  a  good  one  this 
time  to  put  you  out  of  business,  but  if  you  can't  de 
fend  yourself  after  being  warned,  you're  no  good 


THE   LIARS'    CLUB  93 

to  me  as  a  husband.  I  can't  use  that  kind.  So  I'll 
give  you  till  midnight  to  show  up.  When  the  clock 
strikes  twelve,  if  you're  not  visible  to  the  naked  eye, 
I'll  become  Mrs.  Mudde,  and  begin  to  train  for  high 
society  in  Surrey  and  that  town  house  in  Park  Lane. 
Good-by,  boyo — I'll  always  be  a  sister,  if  he  wins. 
But  I  do  hope  you  won't  be  lost  in  the  shuffle  again !" 

Wedding  Number  Three:  All  goes  well  till  six 
p.  M.  of  the  fatal  day — to-day.  I  had  laid  in  three 
dress  suits,  a  small  gent's  furnishing  shop,  a  couple 
of  welter-weight  thugs  from  Casey's,  and  my  best 
man  and  I  each  had  a  magazine  pistol  ready.  At  six 
the  telephone  bell  rings  and  Ma  Peach  croons  out 
her  siren  song.  Daisy,  she  said,  had  cold  toes  over 
something.  Would  I  come  right  over  to  see  her,  or 
else  the  match  would  be  off.  She  had  sent  the  limou 
sine.  See  the  game  ?  Yes  ?  No  ? 

What  could  I  do?  Disobey  the  summons  of  the 
queen  of  the  solar  system,  my  brave,  sweet  Daisy- 
kins?  Not  so!  I  fell  for  it.  Out  I  walked  through 
my  barricades,  jumped  into  the  limousine.  The  min 
ute  I  was  in,  two  large,  adult  men  jumped  in  after 
me.  One  on  each  side.  I  had  no  time  to  put  up  a 
fight  before  they  got  to  my  nose  with  chloroform — 
and — well,  I  woke  up  in  our  friend's  pigeon  ranch, 


94  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

with  my  trousers  gone.  A  quick  finish?  By  Juno! 
Yes! 

Now,  gents,  I  put  it  to  you !  Are  you  going  to  al 
low  me  to  lose  a  twenty-six  carat  bride  at  the  last 
moment  for  want  of  five  cents  and  a  pair  of 
trousers?  Seriously,  my  friends,  I'm  in  a  hole.  I 
ask  you,  man  to  man,  help  me  out!  I  can  make  it 
yet.  Are  you  willing  to  stand  for  me  or  not?  If  you 
ever  were  married,  you  know  how  nervous  a  man  is 
— I  believe,  honest,  I've  a  temperature  of  a  hundred 
and  four  this  blessed  minute.  For  Cupid's  sake, 
give  me  a  lift!  If  I  had  a  hat,  I'd  pass  it  around. 
I  only  need  pants  and  a  taxi.  What  do  you  say  ? 

Fenton  paused,  and  looked  anxiously  around  at 
the  members  of  the  Liars'  Club. 


V 

THE   REPORTER   OF    "THE   ITEM" 

HOW  JOHN  FENTON  ACHIEVED  A  PAIR  OF  TROUSERS 
AND    ATTEMPTED    ASSAULT    AND    BATTERY    UN 
SUCCESSFULLY,    BUT   WAS   RESCUED  BY  A 
CHUBBY  SCRIBBLER 

THERE  was  an  instant's  hush  when  Fenton  fin 
ished.  His  charm  and  personality  had  carried 
his  hearers  along  with  absorbed  attention;  but  he 
had  little  practice  in  impromptu  romances,  and  his 
tale  could  scarcely  convince  the  crowd  of  men  be 
fore  him,  who  were  used  to  all  manner  of  pictur 
esque  narratives.  So,  as  Fenton  sat  down,  a  gust 
of  laughter  applauded  him.  They  had  been  well  en 
tertained  by  his  freak  of  fancy,  but  not  enough  to 
contribute  the  funds  he  had  hoped  might  be  his  re 
ward.  He  made  another  tentative  appeal,  but  a 
cynical  laugh  was  his  only  answer,  and  the  company 
began  to  break.  Men  rose  and  yawned,  started  to 
look  for  their  hats,  and  began  talking  with  one  an 
other.  The  president  came  forward  and  laid  his 
massive  hand  on  Fenton's  shoulder. 

95 


96  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

"Very  good,  lad.  You  nearly  got  us  going  and 
that's  no  joke  for  a  beginner.  We'll  have  to  have 
you  round  again.  Nothing  like  new  blood.  Well, 
good  night,  kid.  Come  round  whenever  you  feel 
like  hitting  the  pipe." 

"But  how  the  devil  am  I  to  get  out  of  here  ?"  Fen- 
ton  asked  anxiously.  "I  can't  go  this  way.  If  I  can't 
borrow  any  money  I  might  at  least  get  a  pair  of 
trousers." 

"Oh,  I  guess  Gerrish  will  fix  you  up  all  right," 
said  the  president,  easily,  and  he  turned  away  and 
began  to  turn  out  the  lamps. 

The  cab  driver  had  already  come  and  joined 
them.  "I  got  an  old  pair  of  overalls,  if  that'll  do  you 
any  good,"  he  suggested. 

Fenton  jumped  at  the  proposal,  for,  indeed,  it 
would  enable  him  to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone. 
If  he  could  once  get  the  cab-driver  alone  he  was  de 
termined  to  gain  the  locket,  and,  when  he  might, 
restore  it  to  its  owner — and  then  discover,  if  pos 
sible,  the  secret  of  his  old  memories  of  the  trinket. 
He  accepted  Gerrish's  offer,  therefore,  and  after 
farewells  to  those  of  the  club  who  had  not  already 
gone,  he  left  and  went  down  a  flight  of  stairs  with 
the  cabby. 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM"     97 

He  had  already  measured  his  man  with  his  eye. 
Gerrish  was  a  gin-soaked  obese  wreck,  and  Fenton 
felt  sure  of  being  able  to  overcome  him  in  a  fair 
fight.  He  watched  carefully,  and  knew  that  the 
driver  had  slipped  the  locket  into  a  lower  vest 
pocket.  It  should  be  easy  to  gain  possession  of  it. 
First,  however,  the  overalls  must  be  secured. 

They  went  down  into  a  stable  next  door,  now 
tenanted  only  by  a  few  sorry  nags  and  two  disrepu 
table  looking  cabs.  It  was  lit  by  an  oil  lamp  on  a 
bracket.  Gerrisn  went  to  a  locker  in  the  rear,  beside 
a  small  door  in  the  wall,  and  drew  out  the  garment. 
The  overalls  were  of  brown  denim,  streaked  with 
oil  and  spotted  with  dirt,  but  they  would  at  least 
cover  his  bare  shins.  Fenton  drew  them  on,  watch 
ing  his  man  sharply.  When  he  was  clad  he  manceu- 
vered  toward  a  wagon  stave  that  was  lying  on  the 
floor,  seized  it,  and  whirled  suddenly  upon  the  cab- 
driver. 

"Now  then/'  he  exclaimed  harshly,  "give  me  that 
locket!  It's  mine." 

Gerrish  looked  up  at  him  through  bleary  eyes. 
"Well,  you  son  of  a  plumber!"  he  ejaculated,  and 
then,  with  remarkable  agility  and  force,  his  foot 
shot  out,  caught  his  opponent  in  the  diaphragm  and 


98  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Fenton  dropped  doubled  up,  with  the  wind  knocked 
out  of  him.  Before  he  could  recover  the  cabby  had 
fallen  on  him,  and  was  throttling  him.  He  began 
to  punch  with  fervor.  Fenton  saw  stars,  then  every 
thing  went  black. 

5}  ****** 

He  opened  his  eyes  to  find  Richmond,  the  chubby 
reporter  who  had  been  ejected  from  the  club,  sitting 
on  a  keg,  watching  him  curiously.  Fenton  sat  up  on 
the  floor  and  looked  groggily  about.  The  cabman 
was  lying  a  few  feet  from  him,  supine,  with  his  eyes 
shut,  evidently  knocked  out. 

The  reporter  smiled.  "Coup  de  savatte,"  he  said. 
"That  cabby  must  have  come  from  Paris.  Dirty  low 
trick.  How  d'you  feel?" 

Fenton  rose,  stretched  his  arms  and  legs,  and 
then,  recollecting  his  object,  turned  to  the  cabman 
and  felt  quickly  in  his  greasy  vest  pockets.  In  one 
was  a  large  nickel  watch,  the  other  was  empty. 

"I've  got  it,"  remarked  the  reporter. 

Fenton  sized  him  up,  and  took  a  step  forward. 

"Give  it  tome!" 

"What?" 

"The  locket,  of  course.   You  say  you've  got  it." 

Fenton  realized  now  how  foolish  he  had  been  ever 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM"     99 

to  speak  of  the  robbery.  He  resolved  to  humor  the 
reporter  till  he  could  get  rid  of  him.  "That  story 
about  the  stolen  jewels  was  all  a  joke,"  he  added. 

"It  was  no  joke,  son.  I'm  not  a  fool.  But  what 
about  the  locket?" 

"That  locket,"  said  Fenton,  "has  something  queer 
to  do  with  me — I  don't  know  just  what.  There's 
something  mysterious  about  it,  and  I  want  it.  I 
don't  know  who  it  belongs  to,  but  I  know  I  have  a 
better  right  to  it  than  you  have.  As  for  the  robbery, 
if  you  want  to  believe  in  it  you  may,  but  I  won't 
tell  you  anything  about  it." 

"In  which  case  I  keep  the  locket,"  said  the  re 
porter.  "And  now  what  are  you  going  to  do  in  that 
rig?" 

"I'm  going  to  borrow  a  quarter  from  you  to  get 
up  town  with." 

"Right,  all  right ;  but  you'll  have  to  earn  it.  Now 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I've  got  to  fool  around  for 
a  half  hour  or  so,  looking  for  a  girl  a  few  blocks 
from  here.  Now  I  don't  care  to  hang  round  in  the 
slums  alone,  and  if  you'll  stay  with  me  I'll  give  you 
a  dollar  for  car  fare  and  the  locket  to  boot  when  the 
deed  is  did.  All  I  want  is  your  name  and  address. 
Otherwise  I  follow  you  till  I  find  out  for  myself." 


TOO  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"All  right.  My  name  is  John  Fenton,  and  I  live 
at  69  West  a  Hundred  and  Twenty-seventh  Street." 

"We'll  see.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  corroborate 
that.  Have  you  anything  to  prove  it?" 

Fenton  pulled  a  letter  from  his  pocket  which 
showed  the  truth  of  his  confession. 

"Looks  all  right  to  me,"  said  Richmond,  and  he 
wrote  it  down  on  his  cuff.  Then,  he  looked  at  the 
cabby.  "I  see  our  cross-eyed  friend  is  stirring  in  his 
sleep.  Let's  get  out  of  here  pronto,  and  go  where  we 
can  talk.  Don't  do  anything  foolish  like  running 
away,  though;  and  remember  that  I  used  to  be  the 
feather-weight  champeen  of  the  Rosebud  Social  and 
Outing  Club." 

By  this  time  they  were  walking  rapidly  away 
from  the  stable,  proceeding  toward  Canal  Street. 
To  emphasize  his  warning,  the  reporter  had  taken 
Fenton  by  the  arm. 

"Now  see  here,  son,"  he  went  on,  "you're  already 
somewhat  in  my  debt.  That  pirate  would  have 
gouged  your  eyes  out  in  another  minute  if  I  hadn't 
been  in  ambush.  You've  got  a  story,  and  I  want  it. 
Give  up  what  you  know,  and  I'll  return  the  jewelry. 
Or  else  there's  nothing  doing."  He  stopped  under  a 
lamp  post,  and  looked  Fenton  over  deliberately.  His 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE   LT&M."  101 

words  were  coercive,  but  his  eyes  twinkled  with 
good  nature. 

"You'll  have  to  keep  it,  then,  unless  I  can  get  it 
away  from  you,"  said  Fenton  gloomily.  "I  don't  see 
that  the  story's  any  of  your  business." 

"All  news  is  my  business.  I  represent  the  people 
of  New  York,  who  have  a  right  to  know  what's  go 
ing  on — especially  when  it's  as  queer  as  you  hinted 
at.  When  I  saw  you  up  there  they  all  thought  that 
yarn  about  a  jewel  robbery  was  a  bluff.  I  knew  well 
enough  it  wasn't.  I  don't  know  what  story  you  told, 
finally,  but  I'll  bet  it  wasn't  the  right  one.  So  when 
they  bounced  me,  I  hung  around  to  see  what  you'd 
do.  Murder  was  the  last  thing  I  expected.  And  even 
now,  if  you've  lost  seven  millions  worth  of  dia 
monds,  more  or  less,  I  fail  to  see  how  it  is  worth 
your  while  to  jump  this  cabby  just  to  get  back  one 
gold  locket  set  with  rhinestones.  To  the  casual  debu 
tante,  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  worth  the  risk.  Hence, 
this  request.  Put  me  onto  the  story.  At  present  I'm 
out  on  another  assignment,  but  I  may  be  able  to 
work  'em  both.  What  are  you  afraid  of?  If  you 
want  honestly  to  get  your  fortune  back,  I  may  be 
able  to  help  you.  If  you  know  anything,  you  know 
that  a  good  reporter  can  beat  any  detective  in  the 


102  F?ND   THE    WOMAN 

central  office.  And  I'm  the  star  of  the  "Morning 
Item." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Fenton,  "I've  given  my  word 
of  honor  not  to  tell." 

"Ah,"  said  the  reporter,  "compounding  a  felony? 
All  right,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  One  last 
proposition;  going,  going,  gone!  I've  got  to  hang 
round  Eldridge  Street  to  catch  a  girl  who  ought  to 
be  due  there  pretty  soon,  according  to  my  tip.  My 
paper  wants  her,  and  also  I  have  some  important 
news  to  give  her — I've  got  to  break  a  sad  tale.  We 
reporters  get  queer  jobs.  Now  if  you'll  come  along 
with  me  decent,  while  I  wait  for  her,  I'll  stake  you 
to  a  cab  afterward,  and  you  can  get  up  town  for 
your  pants.  Meanwhile,  I  keep  this  locket  as  an  evi 
dence  of  good  faith.  It's  your  bail,  till  I  get  ready 
to  go  after  you  professionally.  That's  the  best  I  can 
do.  While  we  wait,  I'll  enliven  the  vigil  by  as  pretty 
a  little  tale  of  middle-class  life  as  you  ever  heard  in 
the  papers." 

Fenton  reluctantly  consented.  He  was  not  anxious 
to  become  conspicuous  by  attacking  the  reporter, 
much  as  he  wanted  the  locket — and  Richmond's 
proposition  seemed  the  easiest  way  of  getting  up 
town.  They  walked  along  Canal  Street,  therefore, 


I'm  going  to  tell  you  why  I  need  you 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM"     103 

and  turned  into  Eldredge  Street.  In  the  middle  of 
the  block  Richmond  turned  Fenton  up  to  a  pair  of 
tenement-house  steps  that  commanded  a  view  of 
both  sidewalks. 

They  sat  down,  perched  a  little  above  the  dirty 
pavement  where  the  submerged  tenth  traded,  played 
or  promenaded  in  front  of  them.  Keeping  his  quick 
eye  alert  upon  the  passers-by,  Richmond  produced  a 
roll  of  Havana  cigarettes  and,  lighting  one  from  the 
other,  smoked  them  in  a  chain  as  he  narrated  his 
tale. 

THE   MIDDLE-CLASS   GIRL 

Take  it  from  me,  Old  Top,  the  bromidic  center  of 
New  York  City  is  situated  at  the  corner  of  Broad 
way  and  Ninetieth  Street.  That's  where  Mr.  Mid 
dle  Class  lives ;  call  him  a  bromide,  a  philistine,  or  a 
man-in-the-street,  he's  bound  to  have  his  nine-room 
apartment  and  bath  somewhere  thereabouts.  Mr. 
Average  Man  is  a  broker.  He  owns  an  eighteen 
hundred  dollar  motor  car  and  hunts  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks  or  up  in  Maine  two  weeks  every  fall.  His 
wife  is  a  good  looking,  middle-aged  woman  in  black 
satin,  with  the  gray  spots  in  her  hair  modestly 


104  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

touched  up.  She  plays  bridge  and  has  a  manicure- 
masseuse  come  in  every  Friday  or  so.  There's  one 
son  who  seldom  leaves  Broadway  at  night,  and  who 
is  putting  up  margins  during  his  lunch  hour,  and  al 
ways  getting  stung.  Such  was  the  Baker  menage — 
business  and  theaters  and  bridge  and  an  occasional 
dance.  But  Miss  Baker — Bessie  Baker — was  the 
lovely  duckling  in  this  family  of  male  and  female 
hens. 

At  thirteen  Bessie  changed  her  name  to  Eliza 
beth,  did  up  her  hair,  lengthened  her  skirts  and 
began  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  she  was  hope 
lessly  middle-class,  and  doomed  to  marry  an  insur 
ance  agent  if  she  didn't  look  sharp — thence  to  a 
small  flat  on  a  Hundred  and  twenty-sixth  street,  a 
baby  and  a  gossiping  life  across  the  dumb  waiter  of 
the  next  apartment.  Elizabeth  had  aspirations,  and 
began  to  make  plans  for  Bryn  Mawr.  She  went 
through  the  high  school  (pa  was  strong  for  the 
public  schools  and  no  nonsense  about  swell  semi 
nary  life),  and  was  just  about  to  try  for  the  en 
trance  examinations  when  a  flurry  in  P.  D.  &  Q.  put 
father  Baker  in  a  hole,  and  zip!  the  university  edu 
cation  was  out  of  the  game  for  poor  Elizabeth. 

Did  the  old  man  care?     Not  so;  he  never  took 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM/'  105 

much  to  the  idea  of  making  high-brow  of  Bessie. 
He  thought  it  would  spoil  her  chances  for  matri 
mony — you  know  the  old  idea.  But  the  girl  was 
really  terribly  cut  up.  Middle-class  society  was  be 
ginning  to  get  on  her  nerves.  All  she  heard  talked 
was  bridge  and  business,  theaters  and  teas,  from 
morning  till  night.  In  her  world  romance  was  un 
known.  Nobody  ever  eloped,  nobody  ever  did  any 
thing  great  or  criminal.  Girls  grew  up,  had  children 
and  died  without  ever  knowing  an  adventure.  Men 
had  mysterious  vices — she  knew  of  them  as  shame 
ful,  sordid  acts  that  could  never  attract  her — but  to 
her  vision  gents  were  always  well  dressed,  gloved 
and  caned,  paying  silly  compliments,  talking  bosh 
and  sending  violets.  What  was  over  the  other  side 
of  the  wall  which  surrounded  her? — that  was  what 
she  wanted  to  know.  She  knew  no  millionaires  and 
no  paupers.  Not  even  a  suffragette.  No  friend  of 
hers  ever  got  into  the  papers.  No  girl  had  a  secret 
she  could  not  and  did  not  babble  to  all  her  friends. 
In  her  world  the  fairyland  of  science  was  unknown, 
the  charm  of  philosophy  unheard  of.  Literature 
was  confined  to  the  fifteen-cent  magazines  and  art 
to  the  thirty-five.  And  there  was  a  great  big  world 
outside  her  door — a  world  brilliant  with  blood,  bru- 


io6  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

tality,  crime,  poverty,  suffering,  private  yachts,  di 
vorces  and  luxury.  She  had  never  been  south  of 
Twenty-third  Street.  She  had  never  seen  the  water 
except  from  Riverside  Drive.  Oh,  for  a  man  who 
could  explain  Nietzsche  to  her !  Oh,  for  a  man  who 
knew  the  difference  between  De  Maupassant  and 
Balzac!  Can  you  tell  why  Mendel  has  superseded 
Darwin?  No  more  could  Bessie.  What  was  Prag 
matism?  Who  were  these  new  post-impressionists 
she  read  of  in  skimpy  paragraphs  in  Scribner's? 
How  could  intelligent  men  and  women  perceive 
charm  in  Debussy's  discords?  Yes,  she  had  been 
abroad  with  her  mother  and  Baedeker — but  they 
had  to  stay  indoors  every  night  in  Paris.  They  had 
never  seen  an  anarchist  or  a  slum,  or  a  tea-taster  or 
a  live  poet. 

Now  a  girl  who  had  something  to  do  with  the 
Delancy  Street  settlement  house  happened  to  meet 
Bessie  at  a  toy  tea  one  day,  and  when  the  two  got 
together  for  four  minutes  Bessie's  horizon  moved 
north,  south,  east  and  west  ten  degrees.  The  lit 
tle  middle  class  girl  discovered  that  while  she  and 
her  ilk  wandered  through  the  desert  of  culture  far 
from  both  the  upper  and  the  lower  strata  of  society, 
the  prince  and  the  pauper  foregathered  at  wonderful 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM."  107 

houses  in  the  purlieus  and  communed  with  each 
other  at  close  range.  She  heard  of  university  exten 
sion  courses,  of  celebrated  men  who  lectured  to  shop 
girls,  of  artists  who  made  music,  of  socialist  million 
aires  who  married  working  girls — exhibitions  of 
paintings  and  books  and  classes  and  clubs  and  politi 
cal  economy  and  sometimes  W.  and  Y.  An^i  Bessie 
dreamed  a  dream. 

How  she  made  the  break  and  got  away  I  don't 
know.  She  didn't  tell  me,  but  from  what  I  saw  of 
her  I  knew  that  her  will  was  stronger  than  the  old 
man's — and  her  mother  merely  fainted  away  when 
Bessie  packed  her  suit  case.  Was  it  the  socialist 
millionaire  story  which  reconciled  them,  finally  ?  All 
I  know  is  that  Bessie  Baker  moved  down  to  Riving- 
ton  Street  and  got  a  job  rolling  cigars  in  a  little  to 
bacco  factory  at  six  dollars  a  week.  She  roomed 
with  two  Jew  girls,  over  a  delicatessen  shop  and 
spent  every  night  making  hay  with  the  social  ad 
vantages  presented  by  the  Delancy  Street  Social  Set 
tlement.  Nobody  knew  that  she  wasn't  a  poor  girl, 
and  so  she  was  allowed  to  mix  with  millionaires  and 
philosophers  and  high  society  ladies  and  visiting 
"Who's- Whos"  to  her  heart's  content. 

Perhaps  you  think  I'm  exaggerating;  but  if  I 


io8  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

could  describe  one  week  of  her  new  existence  you'd 
see  how  much  fussier  her  life  was  on  the  east  side 
than  in  Philistia.  There  were  automobile  rides  to 
the  residences  of  wealthy  patrons  on  Long  Island. 
There  were  boxes  at  the  opera  for  the  sweat-shop 
girls ;  they  were  even  taken  to  the  horse  show.  That 
first  week  Bessie  met  Paderewski ;  she  held  the  basin 
when  he  dipped  his  $25,000  hands  into  warm  water 
before  doing  his  stunt,  and  her  eyes  were  within 
four  feet  of  his  facile  fingers  when  he  played  his 
own  minuet!  Henry  James?  When  he  called  and 
gave  a  talk  on  the  "Metaphysics  of  Rhetoric"  she 
almost  ate  him  alive !  She  was  one  of  thirteen  wom 
en  wage  workers  who  dined  with  the  Prince  of  Bul 
garia,  then  studying  American  Sociology;  and  she 
got  to  know  the  Swami  Gecchachavanda  so  well  he 
told  her  his  real  name !  Say,  you  ought  to  have  seen 
Bessie  dancing  with  President  Roosevelt  at  a  shirt 
waist  ball!  And  meanwhile  she  was  learning  to 
speak  in  double  negatives  and  rubbing  burnt  matches 
into  her  finger  nails  for  local  color,  building  out  her 
pompadour  and  wearing  brass  rings  so  as  not  to  be 
caught  as  a  middle-class  impostor  in  that  ineffable 
mixture  of  extremes.  Nobody  ever  suspected  that 
she  worked  because  she  liked  it.  By  means  of  a  few 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM."  109 

choice  solecisms  she  had  butted  into  the  most  exclu 
sive  circles  of  brains  and  fashion  and  wealth.  She 
was  clever,  all  right.  I'm  for  Bessie,  strong ! 

Meanwhile  she  was  working,  and  working  plenty. 
She  made  cigars  so  much  faster  than  the  Yiddish 
girls  in  the  factory  that  she  got  into  trouble  and  the 
foreman  had  to  rescue  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  saw  a  man  knocked  down — the  foreman  did 
it  to  a  chap  who  called  her  a  scab — and  then  she 
realized  that  her  blood  was  as  red  as  a  squaw's. 
The  foreman  took  a  fancy  to  her  after  that,  and 
used  to  sit  on  the  steps  of  the  tenement  where  she 
lived  and  talk  to  her  till  midnight.  He  was  a  Rus 
sian,  and  had  been  in  the  fighting  organization  of 
the  Revolutionists  all  through  the  campaign  of  '05. 
He  explained  the  theory  of  the  Terror,  he  told  of 
shooting  behind  barricades,  of  the  manufacture  of 
bombs,  of  plots,  conspiracies,  heroes  and  martyrs 
of  fifteen,  spies  and  assassinations  and  gore  till  she 
gripped  his  wrist  and  gasped  for  breath.  He  had 
killed  men — he  had  seen  men  hanged,  he  had 
worked  in  the  Siberian  mines,  and  had  had  five  es 
capes  from  prison.  Life  was  opening  up  big  for 
poor  little  Elizabeth  of  West  Ninetieth  Street. 

Meanwhile  she  rolled  stogies  by  day,  and  by  night 


no  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

she  put  on  a  hand-washed  shirtwaist  and  did  high 
society  at  the  settlement.  Celebrities  came  and  went, 
lectures  and  musicales  exemplified  to  her  all  that 
was  finest  and  best  in  modern  culture.  Just  watch 
Elizabeth,  the  president  of  a  club  of  eighty  women 
who  did  things!  They  fought  for  a  public  play 
ground  and  got  it,  they  shut  up  thirteen  saloons, 
they  established  a  self-supporting  day  nursery,  they 
gave  a  fair  and  Mrs.  Ralph  Waldo  Billion  was  on 
the  same  committee  as  Elizabeth  Baker.  Didn't  this 
beat  life  as  lived  at  the  corner  of  Ninetieth  and 
Broadway?  Elizabeth  drank  the  intellectual  life  to 
the  dregs — and  listened  spellbound  to  the  foreman's 
prophecies  of  the  great  Social  Revolution. 

Then,  just  like  in  the  yellow  papers,  came  the 
Millionaire  Socialist.  He  lectured,  he  spent  his 
money  on  Braun  photographs,  Barye  lions  and  trips 
to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  he  started 
equality  leagues  and  co-operative  consumers'  fed 
erations,  he  contributed  to  the  Settlement  Magazine, 
fraternized  with  the  working  class — and,  at  last  he 
met  Bessie  Baker.  Fate  rang  the  bell — her  time  had 
come!  When  Mrs.  Baker,  up  at  Ninetieth  Street, 
anxiously  waiting  for  news  from  the  front,  heard  of 
it  she  was  measured  for  a  new  forty  dollar  tailor- 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM."  in 

made  corset  and  an  acreage  hat,  and  .began  to  make 
a  study  how  the  mother-in-law  of  a  millionaire 
ought  to  eat  asparagus.  She  cut  a  few  old  outworn 
friends  and  began  to  study  restaurant  French.  She 
at  last  realized  that  Bessie  had  made  good. 

The  socialist  millionaire  was  a  rather  effeminate 
youth  who  wore  soft  collars  and  black  Windsor  ties, 
glib  spoken  and  so  frightfully  anxious  to  be  a  work 
ing  man  that  he  laid  bricks  in  overalls  on  his  coun 
try  place.  The  wall  had  to  be  pulled  down  and 
rebuilt,  but  Tolstoi's  precepts  had  been  obeyed. 
From  the  moment  he  set  eyes  on  Elizabeth  Baker, 
any  woman  could  have  seen  what  was  coming.  He 
haunted  her,  discussed  propaganda,  the  materialistic 
conception  of  history,  the  child-labor  law  and  the 
adulteration  of  milk.  He  made  love,  sterilized  with 
philosophy,  and  for  a  month  or  so  they  engineered 
a  precarious  courtship,  in  the  committee  rooms  of 
the  Settlement  House,  in  the  subway  and  in  chilly 
art  galleries.  And  then  he  proposed.  I'd  like  to 
have  heard  it.  The  man  was  dead  in  earnest — he 
was  quite  fond  of  Bessie,  but  marriage  was  mainly 
an  opportunity  for  co-operatively  managing  a  higher 
life  for  the  welfare  of  the  race.  He  believed  in 
eugenics. 


112  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

.Well,  Bessie  had  about  forgotten  her  high-school 
English  by  this  time.  She  made  a  wild  effort  to 
atavize  back  to  the  idiom  of  Ninetieth  Street,  but 
her  fascinating  life  in  a  cigar  shop  had  accustomed 
her  to  the  speech  of  those  who  really  live.  She  was 
actually  human  at  last. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Seymour,"  she  said.  "It's  tough 
on  you  to  throw  you  down,  but  when  I  marry  my 
husband  he's  got  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere 
theory.  I've  seen  all  kinds,  now — rich  man,  poor 
man,  beggar  man,  thief,  doctor,  lawyer,  Indian 
chief — and  I  know  what's  good.  Me  and  the  fore 
man  Petrovsky's  going  to  hitch  up  and  have  a  cigar 
factory  of  our  own,  after  Christmas.  Take  it  from 
me,  he's  the  only  white  man  in  the  world !" 

The  reporter  rose,  yawned,  and  pulled  out  his 
watch.  "Ten  fifteen.  Yes,  fate  moves  in  a  mys 
terious  way  her  wonders  to  perform,  et  cetera,  et 
cetera.  It  just  shows  that  water  will  reach  its  own 
level.  Elizabeth  Petrovsky  is  going  to  be  the  Joan 
of  Arc  of  the  Labor  Movement.  No,  Mrs.  Baker 
didn't  show  up  at  the  wedding — I  hear  the  family 
has  moved  to  Philadelphia  to  live  down  the  disgrace. 
But  you  ought  to  have  seen  Bessie,  the  pride  of  the 


"  By  Jove !    I   believe  that's   her   now,"   he   whispered 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM."  113 

Ghetto — in  cotton  lace  and  silkolene,  as  happy  as  a 
queen,  last  night.  It  was  she  gave  me  the  tip  about 
this  Belle  Charmion  affair." 

"Belle  Charmion?"  Fenton  was  on  his  feet  at  a 
bound.  "Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  the  devil 
Belle  Charmion  is?  I've  been  hearing  about  her  all 
the  evening." 

"You  have?"  It  was  the  reporter,  now,  who  was 
eager.  "What  have  you  heard  about  her?" 

There  was  little  enough  for  Fenton  to  tell,  except 
that  the  name  had  come  to  him,  repeated  time  after 
time,  often  enough  to  arouse  his  curiosity.  He  men 
tioned  the  fortune  teller's  prediction,  the  chauffeur's 
story  and  the  magazine  mention  he  had  found.  The 
reporter  was  disappointed. 

"I  thought  I  told  you  she  was  the  girl  I  was  trail 
ing,"  he  explained.  "There's  a  big  story  broken  to 
night,  and  she's  wanted,  bad." 

"But  what  is  Belle  Charmion  doing  down  in  this 
part  of  town?"  Fenton  asked  puzzled. 

"Oh,  she's  got  the  sociological  bug  or  something, 
too.  Why,  it  was  Miss  Charmion  told  Elizabeth 
Baker  about  How  the  Other  Half  Lives  and  all  that. 
I  knew  she  was  interested  in  settlements  and  so  on, 
and  so  I  hiked  down  here,  and  chased  up  the  Social 


ii4  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Uplifters.  I  got  a  tip  that  she  was  living  along  here 
somewhere  under  an  assumed  name,  and  gets  home 
about  half  past  ten.  That's  why  I  wanted  to  wait. 
If  she  doesn't  show  up  by  eleven  you  can  have  my 
best  breeches."  He  suddenly  darted  back  into  the 
doorway,  pulling  Fenton  with  him.  "By  Jove,  I 
believe  that's  her,  now !"  he  whispered. 

Fenton  saw  a  young  lady  approaching,  walking 
briskly  toward  them.  She  was  quietly  clad  in  gray, 
and  neither  her  carriage  nor  her  costume  were  those 
of  a  working  girl.  There  was  a  street  lamp  in  front 
of  the  entrance  to  the  tenement  house,  and  as  she 
approached  it  she  was  more  and  more  clearly  illu 
minated.  Something  about  her  face  struck  him 
clearly — as  if  he  half  recognized  it — then,  just  be 
fore  the  shadow  of  the  lamp  blotted  it  out,  his  heart 
suddenly  stopped  beating.  It  was  the  girl  of  the 
photograph — it  was  the  girl  of  his  dream — it  was 
the  girl  with  the  level  eyebrows,  the  whimsical 
smile — 

"  It  is  Miss  Charmion,  by  jimminy!"  the  reporter 
exclaimed,  and  he  advanced  toward  her. 

The  girl  appeared  to  catch  the  words,  for  she 
turned  with  a  quick  glance  at  the  two  young  men. 
Her  eyes  fell  upon  Fenton,  and  rested  there  for  a 


THE  REPORTER  OF  "THE  ITEM."  115 

moment,  with  an  expression  of  surprised  interest. 
Her  glance  met  his,  and  in  that  instant  a  flash  almost 
of  recognition  seemed  to  pass  between  them.  Then 
Richmond  approached  and  accosted  her.  She  an 
swered  without  stopping,  and,  still  speaking  to  her, 
he  walked  along  by  her  side.  In  another  minute  the 
two,  conversing  with  animation,  Miss  Charmion 
showing  eager  interest,  had  turned  the  corner  and 
were  gone. 


VI 

THE    SUITE   AT   THE    PLAZA 

HOW  JOHN  FENTON  ENCOUNTERED  A  FRIENDLY  GEN 
TLEMAN    AND    WAS    GIVEN    THE    POSSESSION    OF 
HIS  HOME AND  OF  THE  LADY  WHO  AP 
PEARED  THERE  IN  TEARS 

THERE  he  was,  therefore,  alone,  without  a 
cent  in  his  pockets,  without  a  hat,  without  any 
thing  to  pawn  for  his  fare  up  town — in  dirty  brown 
overalls.  He  had  not  even  the  locket  to  gain  which 
he  had  taken  so  desperate  a  risk.  But  worse,  far 
worse  than  all  that,  he  had  lost  his  only  chance 
of  finding  the  girl  whose  picture  had  for  four 
months  exercised  so  potent  an  effect  upon  his  heart. 
He  knew,  now,  from  that  one  glance  at  her  face 
that  he  was  in  love  with  her.  All  that  he  had  read 
into  her  features,  during  his  lonely  hours  of  com 
munion  with  the  portrait,  he  had  seen,  living  and 
charming  and  piquant  and  kissable,  as  she  paused 
under  the  lamp.  And  now  she  was  gone  again  into 
the  night,  into  the  mystery.  .  .  .  Their  paths  had 
crossed  once — would  they  cross  again  ?  When  ? 

116 


THE   SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      117 

He  wandered  along  with  this  thought,  up  to  the 
Bowery,  where  at  the  curb  beside  a  taxicab  he  saw  a 
large  well-dressed  man  in  a  shaggy  overcoat  and 
silk  hat  lighting  a  cigar.  Instantly  Fenton  awoke  to 
his  mission,  and  the  necessity  for  getting  up  town. 
The  octoroon  and  the  care-taker  should  be  notified 
as  soon  as  possible  of  the  loss  of  the  diamonds. 

He  walked  up  and  touched  the  gentleman's  arm 
just  as  he  was  about  to  enter  the  cab.  Before  Fen- 
ton  could  speak  the  man  threw  him  an  angry  look. 

"See  here,"  said  Fenton,  "I'm  not  a  beggar.  I've 
just  had  an  accident,  that's  all,  and  I  want  to  get  up 
town.  I  haven't  a  cent  on  me." 

The  man  looked  him  up  and  down,  through  his 
eye-glasses,  then  began  to  laugh.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"that's  a  new  story  on  me.  What's  the  little  game  ?" 

"As  I  said,"  Fenton  insisted,  "I've  got  to  get  up 
to  Harlem,  where  I  can  get  some  money  and  a  hat 
and  a  pair  of  trousers.  Will  you  give  me  a  lift  or 
not?" 

Again  the  gentleman  looked  him  over,  pulling  his 
long  black  mustache  the  while.  His  face  was  hand 
some  and  genial,  a  type  of  the  affable,  experienced 
man  about  town.  Finally  he  laughed  and  said: 
"Well,  I'll  take  a  chance.  I'm  only  going  up  as  far 


n8  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

as  the  Plaza,  but  you  can  come  along  if  you  want  to. 
Jump  in." 

They  entered  the  cab  and  it  started  off  up  town. 
The  stranger  still  eyed  Fenton  interestedly.  "Bun 
coed  ?"  he  asked  finally. 

By  this  time  Fenton  had  learned  discretion.  "Oh, 
no — a  rather  poor  practical  joke,  that's  all.  A  lot 
of  my  fool  friends  got  me  drunk.  My  wedding  day, 
you  know.  That's  why  I'm  in  a  joyous  hurry." 

The  explanation  went  as  it  had  gone  before,  and 
again  the  stranger  laughed.  "Oh,  if  that's  the  case," 
he  said,  "I  guess  I  can  fix  you  up.  Come  up  to  my 
place  and  I'll  give  you  a  hat  and  a  pair  of  trousers, 
anyway.  Make  it  a  whole  suit,  if  you  like.  That 
coat  of  yours  is  hardly  fit  for  a  marriage  ceremony." 

Fenton  played  his  part,  thanked  the  man  effu 
sively,  and  the  trip  was  made  up  town  with  consid 
erable  friendly  conversation.  The  man's  name, 
he  learned,  was  Sproule.  He  was  married,  but 
his  wife  was  out  of  town  and  not  expected  home  till 
to-morrow.  Sproule  had  just  finished  up  a  big  busi 
ness  deal,  and  was  off  for  a  three  months'  trip  on 
another  as  soon  as  he  could  pack  his  grip  at  the 
Plaza  and  get  away.  He  had  an  easy  good  nature, 
a  facile  manner,  and  had  evidently  seen  much  of  the 


THE   SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      119 

world.  But,  in  spite  of  his  jokes  and  glib  stories, 
Fenton  noticed  that  Mr.  Sproule  had  something 
serious  on  his  mind.  Was  it  his  intended  trip  to 
South  America  on  business  ?  Why,  then,  should  he 
keep  such  a  sharp  lookout  to  right  and  left,  as  the 
cab  drove  rapidly  up  Fifth  Avenue?  Once,  when 
the  cab  was  forced  to 'Stop  because  of  a  block  near 
Thirty-fourth  Street,  Sproule  grew  visibly  nervous, 
and  cursed  under  his  breath. 

At  the  Plaza  Hotel  he  jumped  out,  gave  a  quick 
look  around,  told  the  chauffeur  to  wait,  and  mo 
tioned  to  Fenton  to  follow.  As  he  entered  the  ele 
vator  Fenton  caught  in  the  tail  of  his  eye  a  man 
coming  into  the  hotel — where  had  he  seen  him 
before?  As  the  elevator  stopped  at  the  tenth  floor 
he  placed  him — the  man  in  the  shepherd's  plaid  suit 
he  had  noticed  at  Scheffel  Hall !  It  was  queer.  On 
the  Fifth  Avenue  side  Sproule  opened  a  door  with  a 
key  he  took  from  his  pocket.  Fenton  entered  with 
him. 

They  found  themselves  in  the  private  hall  of  the 
suite,  already  lighted,  and  Sproule  led  the  way  to  a 
small  bedroom,  opened  a  closet  and  took  out  a  suit 
of  gray  tweeds  and  a  derby  hat. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  said.     "Get  into  these,  and 


120  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

you  can  return  them  when  you  have  time.  No  hurry 
about  it.  They  belong  to  my  man,  and  I  think 
they'll  fit  you  well  enough.  Not  much  of  a  wedding 
suit,  but  I  guess  the  blushing  bride  won't  care.  Now, 
excuse  me  a  minute;  that  confounded  telephone 
bell's  ringing." 

He  left  Fenton  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  hall, 
and  into  a  parlor.  Here  his  voice  could  be  heard 
speaking,  though  the  words  could  not  be  distin 
guished.  Fenton  began  to  take  off  his  overalls, 
looking  about  the  room  with  curiosity.  It  seemed 
to  have  been  used  by  Sproule's  valet.  A  few  flashy 
pictures  had  been  pinned  to  the  walls,  photo 
graphs  of  race  horses,  actresses  and  flying  machines 
were  stuck  about  the  mirror.  Fenton,  getting  into 
the  tweed  trousers,  walked  to  the  glass.  Upon  the 
dresser  was  a  business  card  reading  "Nailery  Mining 
and  Investment  Company,  St.  Paul  Building,  New 
York." 

He  was  half  dressed  when  Sproule  came  in,  look 
ing  anxious. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "I've  had  an  important  call, 
and  I've  got  to  get  down  town  in  a  hurry.  D'you 
mind  if  I  leave  you  here?  You  can  just  shut  the 
door  when  you're  dressed.  I  guess  I  can  trust  you." 


THE    SUITE   AT   THE    PLAZA       121 

Fenton  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  "What! 
Leave  me  here  all  alone  in  your  apartment — a 
stranger  ?" 

"Sure !"  said  Sproule.  "You're  all  right.  I  know 
faces  pretty  well,  and  I'll  take  a  chance  that  you're 
honest.  Anyway,  I  got  to  go  right  away." 

"I  can  be  ready  in  a  minute,"  said  Fenton. 

"I  can't  wait  a  minute.  It'll  be  all  right.  Good 
by!" 

And  cramming  on  his  top  hat  and  lighting  a  cigar, 
Sproule  waved  his  hand  and  disappeared.  Fenton, 
left  alone,  stood  for  a  while  in  wonder,  then  slowly 
finished  dressing,  and  finally  looked  about.  As  he 
had  entered  the  private  hall  the  suite  showed  by 
its  furnishings  evidences  of  wealth,  luxury,  taste. 
How  could  the  proprietor  trust  him  there  alone  ?  It 
was  too  much  for  him.  At  any  rate,  he  would  leave 
as  soon  as  possible,  before  anything  happened.  Per 
haps  it  was  some  clever  trick — to  accuse  him  of 
theft — or  worse.  It  looked  bad.  .  .  . 

He  had  just  opened  the  door  of  the  chamber  to 
make  his  exit,  when  he  heard  a  key  turn  in  the  door 
to  the  corridor.  Instantly  he  drew  back,  almost 
closed  the  door,  and  listened.  Somebody  came  in. 
Then  he  heard  sobbing — a  woman's  heart-broken 


122  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

voice.  She  passed  into  the  parlor,  at  the  end  of  the 
hall;  the  electric  lights  were  turned  on.  The  weep 
ing  kept  on  continuously,  now  rising  in  hysterical 
bursts  of  agony,  now  falling  into  low  convulsive 
sobs.  What  was  he  to  do?  Leave  silently,  unper- 
ceived  ?  But  he  might  be  caught  in  the  act.  For  a 
while  he  hesitated,  then  he  sat  down  on  a  chair  to 
think. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  up ;  steps  were  coming  down 
the  hall — he  heard  the  clack  of  heels  upon  the  par 
quetry.  Then,  before  he  could  think  what  to  do,  his 
door  was  slowly  opened  and  a  woman  came  in,  still 
weeping,  caught  sight  of  him,  and  stood  still,  star 
ing,  her  lips  parted,  her  blue  eyes  dewy  with  tears. 

She  was  a  lady  of  some  thirty  years,  tall  and 
beautiful — blond,  with  masses  of  fluffy  yellow  hair 
under  an  enormous  white  beaver  hat,  picturesque 
with  white  plumes.  Her  mouth  was  curved  in  a 
tremulous  bow,  and  little  white  teeth  sparkled  de- 
liciously.  As  she  stood  there,  framed  in  the  opening 
of  the  door,  all  in  white  broadcloth,  touched  at  the 
neck  and  wrists  with  white  fur,  she  looked  like  some 
sudden  delightful  apparition  come  to  haunt  him. 
But  great  as  was  his  surprise,  hers  was  evidently 
greater — forbidding,  for  a  moment,  her  speech.  She 


THE    SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      123 

stood  with  a  smallish  black  leather  case  in  her  hand, 
looking  at  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Fenton  began,  in  embarrass 
ment,  "but  Mr.  Sproule  left  me  here  to  put  on  these 
clothes  he  lent  me." 

"Who?"  she  stammered. 

"Why,  Mr.  Sproule — your  husband,  I  presume — 
is  he  not?" 

"My  name  is  Mrs.  Elkhurst — I  don't  see  what 
you're  doing  here — I  don't  understand."  And  she 
backed  into  the  hall,  still  staring  as  if  frightened  of 
him. 

"He  said  he  lived  here.  A  large  gentleman 
with  a  black  mustache  and  a  red  face — he  wore 
glasses—" 

"Oh !"  She  gave  a  little  cry  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  The  package  she  had  been  holding 
dropped  to  the  floor. 

•  "He  lent  me  this  suit — as  by  an  accident  I  had — 
injured  mine." 

She  was  sobbing  again. 

"He  said  his  wife  wouldn't  be  back  till  to-mor 


row." 


"Where  has  he  gone?"  she  demanded,  turning  to 
him,  her  face  suddenly  set,  hard  and  stern. 


124  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"He  was  called  away  on  urgent  business.  He  had 
a  telephone  call.  I  don't  know  from  whom." 

Without  replying,  the  lady  turned,  ran  into  an 
adjoining  chamber,  and  Fenton  could  hear  her  pull 
ing  open  drawers,  opening  and  shutting  doors, 
searching  here  and  there.  He  waited  a  few  minutes, 
uncertain  what  to  do,  when,  looking  down,  he  saw 
on  the  floor  the  package  she  had  dropped.  The  case 
had  opened,  and  half  in  and  half  out  of  it  lay  a 
string  of  brilliant  red  stones  shining'  like  hot  coals  of 
fire.  He  bent  down  and  was  picking  up  the  neck 
lace  when  she  burst  out  of  the  room. 

Disregarding  Fenton,  she  walked  unsteadily  to 
the  end  of  the  hall  and  into  the  parlor.  He  followed 
her,  awkwardly  enough,  the  necklace  dangling  from 
his  hand,  to  find  her  with  her  head  on  her  arms, 
sitting  at  a  boule  secretary.  Fenton  approached  her 
with  misgivings. 

"Here's  something  you  dropped,"  he  said,  and 
placed  the  jewels  upon  the  table.  Then,  distressed 
at  her  emotion,  he  added :  "Can't  you  tell  me  what 
the  matter  is?  Of  course  I  am  a  stranger  to  you, 
but  Fate  seems  to  have  led  me  here,  and  perhaps  it 
was  that  I  might  help  you.  I  wish  I  might  do  some 
thing — if  you  could  trust  me." 


THE    SUITE    AT    THE    PLAZA       125 

She  threw  up  her  head  and  dashed  away  the  tears, 
then  looked  at  him  with  her  brows  knitted.  Fenton 
saw  that  she  held,  crushed  between  her  fingers,  a 
letter.  "Who  are  you?"  she  asked. 

For  a  moment  Fenton  hesitated.  At  first  his  im 
pulse  was  to  confide  in  her,  but  the  events  of  the 
night  had  made  him  cautious.  He  told  her,  there 
fore,  only  his  name  and  business,  and  of  his  meeting 
with  Sproule  on  the  Bowery.  The  mention  of  the 
man  renewed  her  distress.  She  rose,  walked  up  and 
down  a  moment,  then  returned  to  him  as  if  decided 
upon  something. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  offer  to  help  me,"  she  said, 
"but  I  am  afraid  my  trouble  is  past  mending.  You 
look  kind  and  honest.  I  believe  that  you  have  told 
me  the  truth.  You  must  believe  the  same  of  me,  for 
I  am  going  to  tell  you  my  story.  You  will  see  that 
I  have  good  enough  cause  for  tears." 

She  took  the  ruby  necklace  and  sat  down  on  a 
huge  couch.  As  she  told  her  story  she  fingered  the 
jewels  nervously,  pausing  to  control  herself  from 
time  to  time  as  her  emotions  swept  over  her  like  a 
storm. 


126  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

THE  TWENTY-SEVEN   DROPS   OF   BLOOD 

We  have  to  pay  for  everything,  in  this  world, 
everything.  Even  when  we  think  we've  paid,  there's 
more,  and  still  more.  I  thought  I  had  paid  for  this 
necklace,  paid  in  blood  and  tears ;  but  I've  had  to  pay 
again  and  again.  And  still  it  isn't  paid  for.  I 
wonder  when  it  will  be  over  and  the  score  crossed 
off! 

You  have  heard  of  kleptomania?  No  doubt 
you've  often  smiled  and  thought  it  a  polite  name  for 
common  theft.  It  isn't !  Oh,  believe  me  it  isn't.  It 
isn't  a  mere  habit,  either — it's  a  disease ;  it's  one  of 
the  hardest  things  in  the  world  to  cure.  Ask  any 
alienist.  All  the  same,  I  have  cured  myself.  But, 
God !  what  a  fight ;  night  and  day,  day  and  night  for 
years — before  I  won.  It  cost  me  years  of  struggle; 
my  sufferings  have  been  indescribable,  but  I  per 
sisted  against  all  kinds  of  temptation.  But  even 
then  I  knew  I  would  never  have  won  but  for  my 
love  for  a  man.  And  now — but  let  me  begin  at  the 
beginning.  I  want  you  to  understand. 

My  family  is  one  of  the  best  known  and  most 
highly  respected  in  Philadelphia.  I  have  had  every 
thing — youth,  beauty,  wealth,  education,  social  po- 


THE    SUITE   AT   THE    PLAZA      127 

sition.  You  wouldn't  think  it  possible  for  such  a 
girl  to  go  wrong,  would  you?  And  yet,  somehow, 
it  is  usually  just  such  persons  who  have  this  disease. 
Why  is  it?  I  don't  know — some  subtle  perversity 
in  human  nature,  some  complex  reaction  to  environ 
ment — well,  it  doesn't  matter.  Psychologists  seem 
to  know  little  about  this  abnormal  condition.  I've 
talked  to  all  the  authorities  on  nervous  disorders. 
Dr.  Mitchell,  Dr.  Prince — everybody  of  any  fame. 
I've  tried  Moll  and  the  English  authorities,  the 
Salpetriere  people  in  Paris — hypnotists,  even  The- 
osophists  and  Christian  Scientists.  They  simply 
don't  know  anything  about  it.  My  own  theory  is 
that  it's  a  form  of  dissociated  personality — a  sort  of 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  duality  struggling  in  one 
for  the  mastery.  Perhaps  it's  a  form  of  insanity. 
I  don't  know.  Nobody  knows. 

It's  a  curious  thing,  kleptomania.  Oh,  it's  inter 
esting  enough  to  one  outside  of  it !  I  can  talk  about 
it,  now.  One  of  its  peculiar  features  is  that  one 
becomes  so  extraordinarily  sly — there  seems  to  be  a 
sympathetic  intellectual  stimulus  that  sharpens  one's 
faculties  wonderfully.  One's  mind  has,  while  one 
has  the  obsession,  a  touch  of  genius.  It  is  like  de 
generacy — we  can  scarcely  tell  cause  from  effect, 


128  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

There's  a  "vicious  circle" — one  can't  tell  whether 
mental  keenness  produces  the  desire  to  steal,  or  the 
desire  to  steal  educates  one's  wits.  The  point  is,  one 
becomes  clever  at  it. 

I  know  now,  positively,  how  great  criminals  think 
— how  they  plot  and  contrive — how  they  stake  their 
brains  against  law  and  order.  I  know  how  they 
develop,  how  they  progress.  Their  first,  amateurish 
schemes  are  intricate  and  complicated.  It  isn't  till 
later  in  life  that  they  achieve  the  more  daringly 
simple  crimes  which  succeed  by  their  very  audacity. 
Have  you  read  Poe's  "Purloined  Letter"  ?  You 
know — the  man  who  hid  a  valuable  letter  in  plain 
sight  ?  That's  the  sort  of  acumen  we  have,  the  best 
of  us — those  who  have  developed  a  special  sense  for 
it,  a  craft,  a  refined  cunning.  You  hear  of  the  arrest 
of  ordinary  shoplifters  every  day,  but  my  kind  is 
seldom  caught.  They  can't  be  detected.  They  are 
inspired  by  something  too  sapient,  shrewd,  acute. 

Well,  the  first  time — let's  see  ...  I  was  about 
eighteen.  I  was  visiting  an  old  school  friend  in  the 
South.  She  had  a  Scotch  cairngorm,  one  of  those 
common  brooches  with  colored  stones  you  can  buy 
in  any  shop  in  Edinburgh  for  ten  shillings.  Some 
how  it  attracted  my  fancy.  You  see,  it  seems  to  be 


THE    SUITE   AT    THE    PLAZA       129 

characteristic  of  our  mania  to  be  fascinated  by  ob 
jects  without  regard  to  their  intrinsic  value.  I've 
stolen  things  I'd  never  think  of  using — burnt 
matches,  old  newspapers,  tooth  brushes,  even. 
When  the  fatal  impulse  conies,  one  has  to  steal, 
that's  all.  I've  risked  my  reputation  for  a  birch- 
bark  napkin  ring!  That's  the  way  we  are. 

The  cairngorm  lay  on  Ethel's  dressing  table.  She 
and  I  were  in  the  room,  with  a  colored  maid.  When 
neither  was  looking  I  took  the  brooch  and  hid  it  in 
my  dress ;  I  waited  till  the  maid  had  gone,  and  then 
I  asked  for  it.  The  maid  was  accused,  and,  when 
she  denied  all  knowledge  of  it,  poor  girl,  was  dis 
missed.  She  had  been  with  the  family  all  her  life. 
Wasn't  it  awful?  But  it  was  curious  how  little  it 
affected  me.  There's  some  sort  of  moral  opium  it 
distills.  One  doesn't  care  what  wretchedness  or  in 
justice  one  inflicts.  Oh,  it's  hideous ! 

So  it  went  on,  year  after  year,  the  stealing.  Some 
times  in  shops,  sometimes  in  the  houses  of  my 
friends,  in  public  buildings — anywhere  the  fit  seized 
me.  I  took  everything  my  mania  fancied.  Often  I 
threw  the  things  away  as  soon  as  I  had  secured 
them.  Sometimes  I  replaced  them.  You  have  no 
idea  what  queer  vagaries  one  has,  how  one  will 


130  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

wait  for  days,  weeks,  for  a  chance  to  act.  The  ob 
session  is,  for  the  time  being,  the  most  important 
thing  in  one's  life. 

But  there's  one  thing  you  must  understand,  and 
believe.  It  was  only  one  particular  detail  that  was 
wrong  with  my  moral  sense,  not  a  general  perver 
sion.  It's  like  paranoia ;  it  seems  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  other  parts  of  one's  morality.  One  can  be 
kind,  pure,  temperate,  unselfish  in  everything  else — 
in  everything  that  doesn't  bear  on  this  special  act. 
You're  a  man,  and  you  must  perceive  how  such  a 
thing  can  be.  Haven't  you  known  dissipated  men 
who  are  generous  and  loyal?  If  a  man  is  selfish, 
he's  usually  bad  all  over,  but  if  he  is  a  drunkard,  he 
can  still  be  affectionate.  So,  I  hope  you  won't  think 
of  me  then  as  wholly  vile.  I  stole  in  this  freakish 
way  because  I  was  irresistibly  impelled  to;  but 
otherwise  I  think  I  was  as  good  as  any  woman  could 
be.  Indeed,  knowing  my  fault,  I  tried  the  harder 
to  make  my  life  better  in  other  ways. 

Have  you  ever  heard  that  sometimes,  when  a 
man's  shot,  they  don't  remove  the  bullet?  If  it 
lodges  in  a  part  where  there's  no  danger  or  incon 
venience,  they  let  it  stay,  and  a  cyst  is  formed 
around  it  so  that  it  is  completely  surrounded  and  it 


THE   SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      131 

can't  poison  the  system.  Well,  this  thing  seemed 
like  that,  with  me.  It  seemed  to  be  apart  from  my 
normal  moral  sense.  But  a  moral  sore  can't  really 
heal  like  that,  I  suppose.  It's  always  malignant.  It 
has  to  be  cut  out,  or  it  grows. 

Well,  this  trait  did  grow.  I  took  more  and  more. 
I  became  more  cunning.  I  have  never  been  caught 
or  even  suspected  to  this  day.  I  grew  bolder  with 
every  success;  bolder,  but  never  reckless.  Every 
move  was  thought  out  like  a  game  of  chess.  Then 
came  the  necklace  affair.  That  was  the  climax. 

A  year  ago  I  was  in  Paris  with  my  mother.  We 
had  many  acquaintances  in  the  best  circles,  in  the 
Sorbonne,  in  the  Academy,  in  the  Deputies,  in  the 
old  noblesse  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain.  One 
of  my  best  friends  was  the  Contessa  da  Scarpi,  a 
Roman  lady  of  an  old  Italian  family.  She  had  a 
little  necklace  of  rubies.  .  .  .  Here  it  is.  Pretty, 
isn't  it?  Yet  I  always  think  of  it  as  twenty-seven 
drops  of  blood. 

That  necklace  I  had  to  have!  I  knew  I  should 
try  for  it,  knew  I  should  get  it,  knew  I  should  not 
be  discovered  in  the  theft.  I  did  succeed.  Here  it 
is!  Have  you  examined  it?  The  stones  are  small, 
but  flawless.  It  is  exquisitely  designed — seven- 


132  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

teenth  century  workmanship;  it  is  worth,  I  should 
say,  about  forty  thousand  dollars.  But  I  have  never 
worn  it,  scarcely  even  looked  at  it,  since  I  got  it. 
All  my  pleasure  was  in  the  winning  of  it. 

It  cost  me  nothing,  I  thought.  Nothing?  God! 
The  cost  was  terrific !  Listen :  Because  of  my  theft 
two  sisters  became  estranged.  An  ambitious  and 
talented  young  naval  lieutenant  shot  himself.  Oh, 
he  was  so  handsome,  so  splendid !  A  half  dozen 
family  servants  lost  their  places  and  could  never 
find  other  employment.  All  this  I  knew,  but  I  didn't 
care.  Can  you  imagine  it?  I  didn't  care!  It  was 
as  if  I  were  drugged.  All  I  thought  was,  "The 
necklace  is  mine !" 

You  must  loathe  me,  now,  but  you  must  hear  me 
out.  I  want  you  to  know  to  what  degradation  I  had 
fallen — how  lost  I  was,  how  hopeless,  how  pitiful. 
I  want  you  to  see  what  I  had  to  climb  out  of. 

I  got  out  of  the  country  with  it — all  sorts  of  re 
wards  were  offered  for  it,  numberless  detectives  put 
on  the  search — and  I  sailed  for  home.  When  I 
passed  through  the  custom-house  I  hid  it  in  my  hair. 
You  should  have  seen  me  look  that  young  inspector 
in  the  eye !  I  had  a  sort  of  insolence,  I  was  so  sure 
of  myself.  I'm  sure  all  great  criminals  must  feel 


THE   SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      133 

that  sense  of  power.  It's  wonderful,  exhilarating! 
It's  like  the  courage  of  a  brave  soldier  under  fire. 
Nothing  could  possibly  harm  me,  I  was  sure.  It 
was  as  if  I  dealt  in  potent  magic.  So  I  got  home 
with  my  mother.  Poor  mother ! — if  she  only  knew ! 
Strange,  one  can  never  tell  the  most  important 
things  in  our  lives  to  one's  best  friends!  One  lies 
only  to  those  one  loves.  .  .  . 

Then,  I  met  a  man — the  man  of  all  the  world  for 
me — the  only  human  being  who  could  ever  change 
me.  Love  has  a  strange  alchemy  one  can't  explain. 
Why  try  to  explain  it?  One  is  attracted,  or  one  is 
repelled  in  spite  of  one's  self.  Schopenhauer  calls 
it  the  Spirit  of  the  Race,  seeking  reincarnation.  .  .  . 
I  prefer  the  poetic  interpretation  .  .  .  "for  me, 
Romance!"  .  .  .  never  mind!  .  .  .  Anyway,  I 
fell  in  love  immediately,  desperately.  Love  is  a  ter 
rible  thing  ...  it  took  hold  of  me.  .  .  . 

To  me  Herbert  was  perfect — all  that  was  best 
and  finest  of  manhood.  I  thought  of  him  almost  as 
one  thinks  of  the  great  heroes  of  history — Wash 
ington,  Goethe,  Alexander — he  was  my  Bonnie 
Prince  Charlie ;  my  king  could  do  no  wrong.  And 
so,  as  soon  as  I  found  my  heart  was  gone,  I  got  my 
first  real  sight  of  my  mania — I  saw  the  horrible 


134  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

thing  it  had  become.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  a  leper.  If 
he  had  found  me  out  I  would  have  died  of  shame. 
And  later,  when  I  saw  that  he  actually  loved  me, 
.  .  .  it  was  wonderful!  .  .  .  I  spent  night  after 
night  weeping  at  the  impossibility  of  my  ever  mar 
rying  him.  For  to  me  he  was  as  spotlessly  pure  and 
honorable  as  a  god;  and  I  was  unworthy  to  be  his 
wife.  So  when  he  proposed,  I  refused  him.  When 
he  wanted  to  know  my  reason  I  couldn't  tell.  Then 
he  began  to  make  love  to  me  so  ardently  that  I  was 
alternately  delirious  with  joy  and  tortured  with  hor 
rible  remorse.  It  was  unbearable. 

One  night  he  swept  me  off  my  feet  and  I  accepted 
him.  Oh,  in  my  heart,  I  promised  myself,  at  the 
same  time,  that  I  would  never  marry  him  till  I  had 
cast  out  the  devil  that  was  possessing  me.  It  seemed 
so  easy  at  the  time !  His  strength  seemed  to  make 
me  strong.  I  felt  that  the  inspiration  of  his  love 
and  trust  would  exalt  my  will.  Wait! — can  you 
imagine  a  young  man  who  has  sown  his  wild  oats, 
converted,  and  taking  holy  orders,  and  feeling  sure 
that  nothing  could  ever  tempt  him  again?  That 
was  how  I  felt.  I  thought  that  my  love  would 
change  my  whole  character  in  a  single  day.  Things 
aren't  so  easy  as  that,  in  this  world.  We  have  to 


THE    SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      135 

pay,  always  we  have  to  pay !  We  have  to  pay  again 
and  again ! 

I  suppose  you  have  never  taken  morphine,  or 
opium,  or  cocaine  ?  I  hope  not.  But  you  must  have 
heard  what  a  fight  it  is,  how  terribly  difficult  it  is  to 
stop  the  habit.  It  isn't  impossible,  though.  Why! 
one  time  I  took  cocaine  steadily,  every  day,  for  two 
months — I  just  had  to  see  if  my  will  was  diseased, 
too,  if  I  had  any  strength  at  all  left  in  me.  Pshaw! 
I  stopped  in  a  day.  I  laughed  at  it.  It  was  nothing. 
But  this  thing  was  different.  It  had  grown  like  a 
monster  in  me — I  was  so  in  its  power  that,  to  keep 
my  fingers  from  anything  I  craved — well,  can  you 
refrain  from  drinking  when  you're  thirsty?  It  was 
like  that — worse,  a  thousand  times  worse !  I  fought 
it  night  and  day,  though.  I  was  determined  to  win 
— for  his  sake.  I  fought  it  as  one  fights  a  terrible 
nightmare.  For  a  long  time  I  made  no  headway.  I 
stole  things  even  while  I  was  with  him!  Can  you 
imagine  anything  more  horrible?  Remember  how 
I  loved  him.  It  was  damnable.  .  .  . 

Then,  one  day,  I  was  nearly  caught.  I  had 
slipped  a  red  morocco-bound  book  into  my  muff,  at 
a  house  where  I  was  calling  for  the  first  time.  I 
dropped  my  muff — by  a  queer  chance  it  fell  on  end, 


136  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

and  stood  on  the  floor,  curiously  upright.  He  bent 
down  to  pick  it  up  for  me — I  was  just  a  second  too 
quick  for  him.  How  my  heart  beat!  He  would 
certainly  have  seen  the  book — I  couldn't  have  ex 
plained  it,  possibly.  It  would  have  ended  every 
thing.  So  I  redoubled  my  efforts  to  cure  myself  by 
sheer  will.  I  went  scarcely  anywhere,  and  never 
alone.  I  had  pockets  put  in  my  coat,  and  kept  my 
hands  in  them.  I  schooled  myself  to  think  every 
minute,  to  be  on  my  guard  incessantly. 

Well,  I  improved  rapidly  after  that.  When  I  had 
taken  nothing  for  six  months  I  set  the  day  tor  the 
wedding.  That  was  a  happy  time.  .  .  .  My  only 
bugbear  was  the  necklace.  You've  been  wondering 
why  I  had  not  already  returned  it?  It  was  impos 
sible. 

Even  had  I  been  able  to  go  abroad  I  knew  of  no 
safe  way  of  returning  it.  Had  I  sent  it,  it  would 
surely  have  been  traced.  Think  it  over  (as  I  did 
through  many  a  sleepless  night)  and  you'll  see  huw 
difficult  it  would  have  been.  There  were  the  cus 
toms  again — the  post-office  authorities  to  suspect 
and  examine  any  package — the  express  company's 
invoice — there  was  the  danger  of  theft.  But  the 
Scarpis  were  traveling  in  the  Far  East;  I  didn't 


THE    SUITE    AT    THE    PLAZA       137 

even  know  their  address.  The  only  thing  I  could 
do  was  to  wait  for  my  chance.  I  had  no  one  to 
trust,  no  one  I  dared  tell. 

After  we  were  married  I  kept  the  necklace  hidden 
in  a  secret  compartment  of  my  jewel  chest.  I 
dreamed  of  it,  all  through  my  honeymoon — the  most 
delicious  honeymoon  any  bride  ever  spent — except 
for  that. 

That  was  six  months  ago  .  .  .  now  it  seems 
six  years.  Ah,  well !  .  .  .  When  I  first  met  Her 
bert  I  thought  he  was  a  broker.  Every  one  thinks 
that  now — except  those  few  that  know.  But  after 
I  was  married  he  confessed  to  me  that  he  was  a  de 
tective.  He  told  me  he  was  employed  by  several 
big  corporations  at  a  large  salary  to  work  on  espe 
cially  difficult  or  delicate  cases.  His  value  depended 
upon  people  not  knowing  his  real  occupation.  Pass 
ing  as  a  broker,  he  could  go  into  the  best  society  and 
no  one  suspected  him. 

It  was  a  shock  to  me  at  first,  but  I  got  used  to  it. 
Now  that  I  had  recovered  from  my  mania,  my  spir 
its  went  up  sky  high.  It  was  like  getting  my  youth 
back  again.  I  was  like  a  young  girl.  How  Herbert 
used  to  laugh  at  my  spirits!  I  was  free,  now,  to 
love  him  freely,  as  wildly  as  I  wished.  I  let  myself 


138  FIND  THE   WOMAN 

go.  No  woman  was  ever  so  proud  of  her  husband. 
And  I  was  proud  of  myself,  too.  Why  shouldn't  I 
be?  I  had  conquered  as  desperate  an  evil  as  any 
woman  ever  fought.  But — there  was  still  the  neck 
lace — twenty-seven  drops  of  blood.  ...  A  de 
tective  is  a  dangerous  person  to  attempt  to  hide  a 
thing  from.  I  was  mortally  afraid  he  would  dis 
cover  my  secret. 

We  went  everywhere — I  had  a  wide  acquaintance 
— Baltimore,  Washington,  New  York.  Herbert 
went  with  me.  He  seemed  to  like  the  dinners,  the 
musicales,  dances,  teas,  bridge  parties.  I  was  proud 
of  him.  Everybody  liked  him.  He  was  a  social 
success.  He  never  refused  an  invitation  unless  his 
duties  called  him  away.  Sometimes  he  had  to  be 
absent  for  a  week  or  so  at  a  time;  and,  of  course, 
owing  to  the  nature  of  his  profession  he  could  tell 
me  nothing  of  his  affairs.  Occasionally  he  was  un 
expectedly  out  all  night.  Except  for  these  ab 
sences — and  the  necklace — I  was  gloriously  happy. 
Herbert  was  still  a  lover  more  than  a  husband.  He 
gave  me  presents  often. 

A  week  ago  an  old  Vassar  friend  of  mine  came  to 
me  with  such  a  pathetic  story !  It's  her  private  af 
fair,  and  I  can't  tell  it  to  you.  It  doesn't  matter. 


THE   SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      139 

anyway,  except  that,  for  a  particular  reason,  she 
was  most  anxious  to  make  an  impression  at  a  dance 
in  New  Haven.  Her  whole  future  was  at  stake. 
She  was  awfully  hard  up — she  had  nothing — and 
asked  me  to  help  her.  So  I  lent  her  a  gown,  gloves, 
and  a  few  things  like  that.  She  was  so  pathetically 
grateful  and  happy  that,  just  before  she  left,  I 
thought  of  the  necklace,  and,  carried  away  by  my 
sympathy,  I  offered  it  to  her  for  the  dance.  At  first 
she  didn't  want  the  responsibility  of  it;  she  refused; 
but  I  could  see  that  she  was  crazy  to  wear  it.  It 
was  the  finishing  touch  to  her  costume.  So  I  in 
sisted  and  she  took  it  away.  I  was  glad,  after  all. 
The  necklace  had  caused  so  much  suffering  that  it 
seemed  to  me  it  was  right  to  use  it,  for  once,  to 
make  some  one  happy. 

Last  night,  when  my  husband  came  home,  I  felt 
something  was  wrong.  You  know  a  woman  gets 
things — I  didn't  feel  "right"  near  him — I  can't  ex 
press  it  in  any  other  way.  There  was  some  con 
straint  about  him  I  had  never  felt  before.  I  simply 
"got"  something  near  him,  and  it  made  me  fear 
fully  nervous,  depressed.  But  outwardly  he  was  the 
same  as  ever,  and  my  first  impression  wore  off  a 
little.  Then,  when  he  said  he  had  a  present  for  me 


140  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

I  was  all  rieftt  again,  and  hated  myself  for  thinking 
anything  sinister.  The  reaction  carried  me  into 
high  spirits ;  I  loved  him  more  than  ever ;  I  thought 
him  the  purest  and  the  best.  Oh,  how  I  tried  to 
make  up  for  my  momentary  injustice!  A  present! 
He  had  such  an  adorable  way  of  presenting  things 
— it  made  them  vastly  more  valuable.  I  buzzed 
round  him  like  a  humming-bird  in  my  delight. 

He  took  a  package  out  of  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  me,  after  I  had  paid  him  in  kisses.  I 
was  as  happily  impatient  as  a  child.  I  snapped  the 
string,  laughing,  tore  off  the  paper,  opened  the  little 
leather  case  .  .  .  this  necklace  was  inside!  .  .  . 
my  necklace,  which  I  had  lent  my  friend  a  few  days 
before  .  .  .  twenty-seven  drops  of  blood ! 

I  suppose  I  must  have  thanked  him,  somehow.  I 
may  have  kissed  him  again,  with  that  horrible  thing 
in  my  hand.  Women  are  strange  creatures.  ,  .  . 
The  most  ignorant  woman  can  become  a  great  ac 
tress,  under  the  stress  of  emotion.  .  .  .  The  ages 
have  taught  us  to  defend  ourselves  .  .  .  some  ma 
ternal  instinct  inspires  us.  .  .  . 

But  what  I  did,  or  what  I  said,  I  don't  know.  It 
seems  so  long  ago — and  it  was  only  last  night!  I 
think  he  suspected  nothing.  I  remember  that  I 


THE    SUITE   AT   THE    PLAZA       141 

pleaded  a  headache,  and  got  off  to  my  room,  some 
how,  locked  the  door,  and  went  to  bed.  He  knocked 
later  and  said  "Good  night,  girlie!"  It  comes  back 
to  me  now,  but  at  the  time  I  hardly  realized  it. 

The  ruby  necklace!  My  brain  whirled  with  it! 
It  was  the  most  horrible  night  I  had  ever  spent. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  Oh,  I  went  over  and  over  it  till 
I  thought  I  should  go  mad.  Had  he  discovered  my 
secret?  Had  he  had  a  similar  necklace  made?  I 
thought  of  every  explanation  except  the  right  one. 

This  morning  I  found  I  couldn't  stand  it  unless 
I  learned  the  truth  immediately.  When  he  left  I 
told  him  I  was  going  to  visit  a  friend  in  Pough- 
keepsie  over  night.  He  said  he  might  be  gone  him 
self  when  I  returned.  We  parted  as  we  had  never 
parted  before — something  horrible  was  between  us 
— I  thought  at  the  time  that  he  felt  it  too.  Now  I 
know  he  did. 

I  took  the  first  train  to  New  Haven.  On  th^  way 
there  a  fearful  thought  came  to  me.  You  know  I 
told  you  we  used  to  visit  together  ?  Well,  I  recalled 
that  soon  after  my  marriage  we  spent  a  week-end 
with  some  friends  in  Wilmington.  A  few  days 
afterward  burglars  entered  the  house  and  stole  con 
siderable  jewelry  and  silverware,  Nobody  thought 


142  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

anything  of  it  till  another  house  was  robbed  in 
Richmond,  shortly  after  we  had  been  there.  Then 
they  began  to  call  me  a  hoodoo,  and  laugh  at  me.  It 
was  a  good  joke  for  a  while,  especially  as  it  hap 
pened  once  or  twice  later.  I  thought  of  it  only  as  a 
queer  coincidence.  Now,  as  I  recalled  the  facts,  the 
idea  grew  like  wildfire — it  burned  me  up !  I  couldn't 
stand  the  suspense.  It  seemed  as  if  I  pushed  the 
train  all  the  way  to  New  Haven. 

I  found  my  little  friend  in  tears.  Oh,  I  suppose 
you  have  guessed  what  I  never  suspected.  Her 
house  had  been  robbed  the  day  after  the  dance,  and 
the  necklace  was  gone.  I  was  the  wife  of  a  burglar, 
or  at  least  my  husband  was  the  associate  of  bur 
glars.  The  man  for  whom  I  had  fought  my  fight, 
for  whom  I  had  won,  the  man  whose  love  inspired 
me,  was  a  criminal! 

You  can  imagine  my  situation.  I  had  to  comfort 
my  friend,  who  was  almost  distracted  at  the  loss  of 
the  necklace — and  I  had  it  in  my  purse  all  the  time ! 
I  had  to  tell  her  I  was  sure  it  would  be  found — I 
had  to  leave  her  with  that  burden  on  her  conscience 
— knowing  that  she  would  probably  work  her  fin 
gers  off  trying  to  make  up  the  loss  to  me.  How 
could  I  tell  her  the  truth!  What  could  I  say!  I 


THE   SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      143 

could  only  hope  some  time  to  arrange  it  so  that  the 
thing  might  seem  to  be  recovered.  I  left  her  with 
a  broken  heart.  Well,  mine  was  breaking,  too ! 

Then,  on  the  way  back  to  New  York,  I  began  to 
see  things  more  plainly.  My  love  pleaded  for  him. 
After  all,  was  he  much  worse  than  I?  He  was  a 
thief;  but  had  not  I  been  a  thief  myself  for  ten 
years  ?  I  had  fought  for  my  own  salvation  and  won. 
Couldn't  I  fight  for  his  and  win,  also?  My  love 
came  back  in  a  great  flood.  I  determined  to  save 
him.  I  almost  rejoiced  at  the  opportunity  it  would 
give  me  of  showing  how  much  I  loved  him.  Wasn't 
it  my  duty — what  a  wife  should  do?  The  thought 
uplifted  me. 

None  the  less,  when  I  entered  the  door,  here,  and 
saw  all  the  old,  familiar  sights,  the  place  where  I 
had  been  so  happy,  I  couldn't  help  breaking  down 
and  crying.  I  thought  it  was  all  over  for  ever,  the 
secrecy,  the  pain,  the  struggle,  the  danger.  But  I 
nerved  myself,  and  determined  to  go  on  through 
with  that,  and  worse,  if  necessary,  for  Herbert's 
sake.  And,  God  willing,  I  would  win  him  back  as 
I  had  won  myself. 

Well,  you  must  have  heard  me  crying.  Do  you 
know  what  stopped  my  tears,  what  was  too  deep, 


144  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

oh,  far  too  deep  for  tears?    On  my  dressing  table  I 
found  a  note  saying  that  he  had  left  me  for  ever. 

John  Fenton,  confronted  a  second  time  that  night 
with  a  woman's  broken  heart,  knew  not  what  to  say. 
Mrs.  Elkhurst  arose  deliberately,  with  a  hard,  set 
face,  and  replaced  the  ruby  necklace  in  the  case. 
Then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  to  him. 

"You  understand,  now,  why  I  think  of  those 
stones  as  drops  of  blood!  Well,  what  shall  I  do? 
That's  the  question.  Of  course,  I  can  arrange  to 
have  the  necklace  found,  to  say  it  is,  without  pub 
licity,  or  else  my  friend's  life  will  be  ruined  also. 
But  what  about  my  husband  ?" 

"I  can't  think  of  him  as  a  burglar,"  Fenton  said. 
"It  seems  impossible.  He  was  so  good-natured,  so 
refined.  He  had  so  much  charm." 

"Oh,  it  was  precisely  that  which  made  him  use 
ful,"  said  Mrs.  Elkhurst.  "Of  course  he  did  none 
of  the  actual  work  himself — he  didn't  have  that  kind 
of  skill.  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  have  merely 
located  the  jewels  or  whatever  they  were  after. 
Don't  you  see?  That's  why  he  was  so  willing  to 
visit  at  my  friends'  houses.  I  can  remember,  now, 


THE   SUITE   AT   THE   PLAZA      145 

that  he  used  sometimes  to  excuse  himself,  when  we 
were  all  down-stairs,  and  run  up  for  a  handkerchief, 
or  something  like  that  for  an  excuse.  He  was  look 
ing  about.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  watched  outside, 
too,  while  the  house  was  being  entered. " 

"Do  you  know  any  others  of  the  gang?"  Fenton 
asked. 

"I  suspect  only  one,  an  Irishman.  He  came  once 
or  twice  here  to  see  Herbert,  but  my  husband  always 
managed  to  keep  me  away  from  him." 

"An  Irishman?"  Fenton  immediately  thought  of 
Mangus  O'Shea. 

"A  rough,  ugly-looking  man,  with  little  reddish 
eyes,  and  black,  broken  teeth.  I  think  his  name  was 
Nailery." 

Fenton  jumped  up  and  ran  back  to  the  room 
where  he  had  changed  his  clothes,  returning  with 
the  business  card  he  had  seen  on  the  valet's  bureau. 
He  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Elkhurst. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  that  ?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  it  and  knit  her  brows.  "Look  in 
the  telephone  book,"  she  said  finally,  "and  see  what 
the  number  is.  I  think  it's — let's  see — a  queer  num 
ber — something  like  Wall  nine,  nine,  nine,  one.  I've 
heard  my  husband  call  it  up." 


146  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Fenton  picked  up  the  telephone  directory  and 
found  it.  "Wall  nine,  one,  nine,  one,"  he  read. 

"Yes,  I  think  that's  it.  And  now  I  remember 
overhearing  Herbert  talking  about  some  diamonds, 
once  or  twice." 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  headquarters  of  his  gang.  I 
believe  it  will  pay  investigating,  at  any  rate."  Fen- 
ton  arose  as  if  to  go. 

"Investigating!  What  d'you  mean?"  said  Mrs. 
Elkhurst.  "Are  you — you're  not  a  detective  ?"  She 
grew  pale. 

Fenton  narrated  the  incidents  that  had  made  that 
night  for  him  one  long,  extravagant  adventure.  The 
tale  was  so  incredible  that  he  was  almost  ashamed 
to  tell  it,  but  the  lady's  interest  was  keen  and  deep. 
When  he  came  to  the  Mangus  O'Shea  part  of  his 
story  she  frowned  and  nodded.  "Ah,"  she  said 
when  he  had  finished,  "that  settles  it.  I  can  see  now 
what  happened.  Herbert  and  Nailery,  or  O'Shea, 
as  you  call  him,  have  undoubtedly  been  on  the  track 
of  the  jewels,  watching  their  chance.  How  they 
ever  suspected  the  octoroon  had  them  I  can't  see, 
but  the  rest  is  easy.  Once  having  followed  her,  and 
seen  you,  they  suspected  that  she  had  given  them  to 
you  for  safe  keeping.  I  would  eliminate  the  cross- 


THE    SUITE   AT   THE    PLAZA      147 

eyed  cabman  entirely — he  probably  stumbled  on  to  a 
part  of  the  thing  accidentally,  and  was  only  trying 
for  blackmail.  Still,  the  gang  may  have  got  hold  of 
him,  too.  When  they  took  you  to  the  pigeon  loft 
Herbert  stayed  outside  on  the  watch,  and  perhaps 
he  was  given  a  few  of  the  smaller  stones  to  raise 
ready  money  upon  at  some  pawn  shop.  It's  the 
more  likely,  because  of  late  my  husband  has  been 
complaining  of  being  hard  up — I  remember  he  said 
he  had  bought  the  ruby  necklace  on  credit.  At  the 
time  I  was  too  excited  to  wonder  at  that.  What 
can  we  do?  If  I  can  not  reform  my  husband,  I  can 
at  least  try  to  prevent  his  crime  from  being  success 
ful.  It  seems  to  me  I  must  do  that." 

"There  is  nothing  you  can  do,  that  I  see,"  said 
Fenton.  "But  as  for  me,  I  am  determined  to  follow 
them  up  right  away.  I  doubt  if  I  can  do  anything 
against  them,  for  the  gang  must  be  clever  and  des 
perate.  But  I  can  at  least  try.  Now  I  am  into  this 
plot,  I  am  going  to  do  what  I  can.  The  first  thing 
is  to  get  hold  of  the  octoroon  and  report." 

He  took  up  the  telephone  and  called  up  the  King 
William  Hotel.  No  Miss  Green  was  registered 
there.  That  puzzled  and  worried  him,  but  he  got, 
after  much  talk  with  "Information,"  the  number  of 


148  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

the  Flint  Flat  at  One  Hundred  and  Forty-sixth 
Street,  though  there  was  no  answer  to  the  'phone. 
He  hung  up  the  receiver  in  disgust. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  must  get  down-town  immedi 
ately.  What  shall  you  do  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  my  mother  in  Philadelphia,  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning,",  she  said.  "I  am  going 
to  tell  her  everything.  I  hope  it  will  not  break  her 
heart,  but,  oh,  I  am  so  lonely!" 

After  Fenton  had  pressed  her  hand,  bid  her  good- 
by  and  walked  to  the  door,  he  turned  back  to  look  at 
her.  She  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  her  head 
bowed  in  her  hands,  sobbing. 


VII 
THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM 

HOW  FENTON  MET  BELLE  CHARMION  A  SECOND  TIME, 
WAS  ENTERTAINED  BY  TWO   PROFESSIONAL 
BEAUTIES,  BECAME  A  HERO,  AND  SE 
CURED  HIS  CARFARE 

JOHN  FENTON  did  not  forbear  casting  a  glance 
at  himself  in  the  narrow  mirror  as  he  descended 
the  elevator.  The  gray  tweed  suit  fitted  him  miracu 
lously — and  it  bore  the  cut  of  a  good  tailor.  The 
change  of  costume  excited  him  deliciously — he  felt 
ready,  now,  for  a  new  adventure,  ready  to  play  a 
courageous  part.  He  fingered  the  fine,  soft  wool 
with  surreptitious  delight.  He  set  the  brown  derby 
hat  at  a  careless  angle  on  the  back  of  his  head. 
He  flattered  himself  that  he  knew  how  to  wear 
clothes,  and  was  not  averse  to  showing  himself  in 
this  spotless,  well-pressed  costume  in  the  lobby  of 
the  hotel.  Mrs.  Elkhurst's  narrative  had  steadied 
him,  but  he  was  still  young  and  full  of  the  joy  of 
life.  The  touch  of  vanity  in  him  only  gave  him  a 
trace  of  boyishness. 

149 


150  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

He  plunged  into  the  aromatic  maze  of  feathers, 
silks  and  furs  that  thronged  the  lobby,  with  his 
head  erect.  He  was  as  good  as  anybody.  He  wove 
jauntily  in  and  out  between  the  ladies  and  gentle 
men  in  evening  dress  that  crowded  the  corridors, 
caught  glimpses  of  merry  diners,  kindled  to  the 
strains  of  an  orchestra,  drinking  in  the  atmosphere 
of  wealth  and  pleasure.  Then,  round  a  corner  came 
Belle  Charmion!  It  was  as  sudden  as  that. 

She  gave  him  a  quick  look  and  paused.  He  got 
as  an  impression  of  her,  only  two  soft  hazel  eyes 
glancing  humorously  at  him,  and  the  smooth  shad 
ows  of  black  lynx  furs.  He  came  to  a  stop  to  gaze 
at  her,  and  she  suddenly  turned. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  she  said,  "but  aren't  you — " 
Then  she  blushed  vividly.  "Oh,  I  beg  your  par 
don,"  she  added  hastily,  "I  thought  you  were — 
someone  else."  She  cast  down  her  eyes,  confused, 
and  walked  hurriedly  away.  John  Fenton  turned 
and  stared  after  her,  his  heart  beating.  What  new 
mystery  was  this  that  brought  his  dream-girl  to 
him,  face  to  face ;  that  made  her  pause,  speak,  only 
to  hasten  away?  For  a  moment  he  was  inclined  to 
start  after  her — but  already  she  was  lost  in  the 
crowd.  He  had,  a  second  time,  let  his  opportunity 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      151 

slip  away  from  him.  Who  was  she?  For  whom 
had  she  taken  him  ?  What  had  she  wished  to  say  ? 
Belle  Charmion ! 

Too  much  excited  by  the  encounter  to  enjoy  the 
scene  any  longer,  he  went  out  the  revolving  door, 
and  turned  west  at  Fifty-ninth  Street  toward  Col 
umbus  Circle,  making  for  the  subway.  He  was 
half-way  across  Seventh  Avenue  before  his  mind, 
wandering  from  Belle  Charmion  for  an  instant,  lit 
upon  the  subject  of  carfare.  Eagerly  he  went 
through  the  pockets  of  the  gray  tweed  suit.  Not  a 
dime,  nickel  or  penny  did  he  find.  Nothing  save  a 
quill  toothpick  and  a  leaf  from  the  wrapper  of  a 
Wheeling  stogie!  He  had  dallied  too  long  at  the 
Plaza;  already  the  lady  of  the  ruby  necklace  must 
have  left  for  the  train  to  Philadelphia. 

From  Fifty-ninth  Street  to  Wall  Street  is  five 
hard,  weary  miles.  To  walk  it  would  take  an  hour 
and  a  half,  at  least.  If  he  could  not  think  of  some 
way  to  raise  at  least  five  cents  his  adventure  would 
conclude  in  nothing  more  exciting  than  a  midnight 
tramp  to  a  lonely  bed,  there  to  vanish  in  misty 
dreams  of  what  might  have  been. 

He  turned  down  Seventh  Avenue,  therefore,  his 
wits  working  at  the  problem,  keeping  his  eyes  open, 


152  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

the  while,  for  any  possible  answer  to  it  which 
might  casually  approach  him.  But  Seventh  Avenue 
was  almost  free  of  wayfarers.  A  policeman  re 
garded  him  with  an  icy  eye.  He  passed  a  flushed 
youth  saying  good-by  to  a  pretty  girl  with  an 
eighty-five-dollar  hat.  He  passed  a  small  horde  of 
waiting  conductors  and  motormen  at  the  car  barns. 
In  none  of  these  did  he  find  the  answer  to  his  rid 
dle.  Past  the  blinking  electric  signs  heralding  the 
glad  fact  that  "H.  &  L.  Corsets  make  the  Female 
Form  Divine,"  past  theaters  just  ready  to  belch 
forth  their  victims,  John  Fenton,  betweeded  and 
anxious,  strolled.  He  was  thinking,  thinking.  Not 
of  Belle  Charmion  or  Mrs.  Elkhurst,  now,  not  of 
the  octoroon  or  the  Liars,  but  of  the  one  elusive 
nickel  he  needed  for  carfare  to  carry  him  further 
on  this  Arabian  Night's  Entertainment. 

He  came  to  the  Hotel  Caxton  and  paused.  Here 
he  was  at  the  center  of  New  York's  night  life,  the 
half-way  station  of  gay  rounders,  one  of  the  light 
houses  of  Longacre  Square,  one  of  the  many  pal 
aces  of  oysters,  lobsters  and  champagne.  Fenton 
was  a  sober  enough  youth — he  knew  this  aspect  of 
the  metropolis  mainly  through  the  newspapers,  but 
he  was  stimulated  by  feeling  that  he  was  now  in  the 


THE   CAXTON    DINING    ROOM      153 

locus  of  lively  things.  In  a  minute  a  rush  of  thea 
ter-goers  was  upon  him  and  he  was  swept  along. 
Hardly  knowing  why,  he  entered  the  Caxton  and 
stood  in  the  lobby  to  devise  some  plan.  He  won 
dered  how  confidence  men  worked  their  games. 
He  knew  that  in  this  part  of  the  city  clever  wits 
were  as  good  as  ready  money.  How  could  he  work 
it?  But  there  was  little  need  for  Fenton's  solici 
tude.  Fate  had  him  in  hand  that  night  and  there  in 
the  lobby  of  the  hotel  two  lovely  ladies  had  already 
marked  him  for  their  own. 

They  might  have  posed  as  "Night  and  Day,"  so 
brilliantly  were  they  contrasted.  One  was  a  spark 
ling  brunette,  black  of  hair  and  eye,  red  of  cheek, 
vivacious,  radiant,  most  gorgeously  alive.  The 
other  was  a  super-blonde.  Her  hair,  sportive  in 
ringlets,  charmingly  careless,  was  shaded  from  gold 
to  silver,  her  eyes  were  violets.  She  was  the  sunny- 
languorous  type,  passive,  yet  more  compelling  than 
she  of  the  dark,  darting  eye.  Fenton,  at  his  first 
glance  at  her,  knew  that  hundreds  of  men  must 
have  been  inflamed  by  her  beauty.  In  it  there  was 
little  subtlety;  it  was  a  highwayman  beauty,  it 
cried:  "Hands  up!"  The  other,  the  brunette,  was, 
however,  something  more  than  pretty — one  looked 


154  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

twice,  and  found  something  new  to  admire.  Her 
attraction  had  depths  one  longed  to  penetrate. 

They  stood,  these  two,  attired  in  furs  and 
feathers,  silks  and  lace,  waiting  by  the  door  of  the 
dining-room  and  looked  at  him.  Fenton  felt  some 
thing  extraordinary  in  their  glance — it  was  sus 
piciously  friendly.  When  they  smiled  and  nodded 
at  him  he  felt  uncomfortable;  their  beauty  was 
something  too  dangerous,  and  he  walked  uneasily 
away.  In  a  moment,  however,  a  hall-boy  overtook 
him.  Fenton  was  informed  that  the  two  ladies 
wished  to  speak  with  him.,  So,  amazed  at  the 
honor,  and  wondering  what  new  trick  was  now  to 
be  turned,  he  walked  over  to  them,  and  lifted  the 
brown  derby. 

The  brunette's  black  eyes  sparkled  and  she  showed 
her  pretty  teeth  as  she  held  out  a  white-gloved  hand. 

"Say,  kid,  you  ain't  going  to  cut  an  old  friend, 
are  you  ?  Don't  do  anything  like  that !" 

Fenton  mumbled  a  kind  of  blurred  apology. 

"Why,  I  believe  you  don't  remember  me!"  she 
complained.  The  blonde's  lip  curled  in  a  faint 
smile;  she  shrugged  her  fur-clad  shoulders  and 
looked  away. 

"Where  was  it  I  saw  you  ?"  said  Fenton  puzzled. 


THE  CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      155 

fishing  for  some  hint  that  would  give  him  his  cue. 

The  brunette  laughed  merrily.  "The  last  time 
I  see  you,  you  was  hanging  to  the  ropes  when  Jack 
Ketchell  was  given  the  decision.  No  wonder  you 
forgot  me!"  The  blonde  looked  dreamily  off  to 
ward  the  theater  office  desk.  She  seemed  to  be  in 
a  world  of  her  own. 

Fenton  realized  that  the  mistake  was  sincere.  He 
had  evidently  been  taken  for  some  pugilist  with 
whom  the  brunette  had  had  a  passing  acquaintance. 
The  question  was,  who  was  he?  He  searched  his 
memory  for  the  name  of  Jack  Ketchell's  unfor 
tunate  opponent.  No  answer.  The  only  knowledge 
Fenton  had  of  current  fistic  events  was  derived 
from  the  smart  talk  of  a  precocious  office  boy 
at  the  drafting-room.  Still,  any  port  was  good 
in  a  storm,  and  Fenton  thought  he  might  turn  the 
mistake  to  his  advantage  in  some  way.  Perhaps 
these  two  beauties  would  pilot  him  out  of  his 
straits.  He  grinned  his  best,  therefore,  and  shifted 
his  feet. 

"So  you  was  at  the  fight?"  he  asked.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  the  part  of  pugilist  needed  more 
color.  He  emulated  the  tough  office  boy  and  his 
talk.  "Say,"  he  said,  getting  into  the  swing  of  it, 


156  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"say,  was  you  wise  to  the  fact  that  I  fit  them  last 
t'ree  rounds  with  a  broke  thumb?  Look  at  there !" 
He  held  out  his  j-ight  hand  and  wiggled  the  thumb 
trickily.  The  brunette  felt  of  it  daintily.  "Wot 
you  expect  I  could  do  with  a  pin  like  that?"  he 
asked  triumphantly. 

"I  thought  you  was  a  little  off  your  feed,"  the 
brunette  said. 

"I  was  overtrained.  Too  fine,"  said  Fenton. 
"Next  time  I'll  get  him,  and  I'll  get  him  good!" 

Then,  hoping  to  discover  his  name  by  the  ruse,  he 
added,  "Say,  give  me  a  knock-down  to  your  friend, 
Miss  Peach-a-/a  Melba." 

The  blonde  so  designated  turned  her  head,  and 
seemed  to  approach  slowly,  from  miles  away.  Her 
smile  was  but  a  shadow,  as  she  looked  at  him,  as  if 
for  the  first  time  conscious  of  his  presence. 

"Miss  Diamond,"  said  the  brunette,  "shake  hands 
with  Whack  Harrison,  ex-middle-weight  champion 
of  the  U.  S."  She  turned  to  Fenton.  "Is  that 
right,  Whack?" 

Fenton  was  thus  much  relieved.  He  at  least 
knew  his  name.  How  long  he  could  maintain  the 
impersonation  was  another  matter.  It  was  a  par 
lous  role.  The  blonde  named  Diamond  extended 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      157 

her  fingers.  Fen  ton  thought  it  not  out  of  character 
to  squeeze  them  with  a  nut-cracker  grip.  It  might 
at  least  bring  the  yellow-haired  girl  to  life.  It  did. 

"Gee!"  she  exclaimed,  shaking  her  hand  in  pain, 
"you  must  think  you're  shaking  with  Kilgore  before 
a  fight.  That  ain't  no  way  to  shake  hands  with  a 
lady !"  She  tossed  up  her  head  in  scorn. 

"That's  right,"  said  Fenton,  "but  you  see  when  I 
do  make  connections  with  a  wonder-worker  like  you, 
it's  hard  work  breaking  away  from  the  clinch.  I 
guessed  you  hypnotized  me  for  fair.  I  ain't  used  to 
gold  queens,  much.  Sort  of  takes  my  breath  away 
and  I  act  foolish." 

The  blonde  could  not  help  smiling,  and  the  ice 
was  broken.  Fenton  began  to  wonder  what  the 
brunette's  name  was,  and  how  to  find  out,  when 
Miss  Diamond  herself  supplied  the  information. 
She  elevated  her  golden  eyebrows  and  said,  "Say, 
Millie,  how  about  the  eats  ?  I'm  all  in !" 

"That's  right,"  said  the  brunette.  "Whack,  we 
was  just  going  in  to  dissect  a  lobster  and  do  a  little 
drown  in  the  fizz.  Won't  you  be  among  them  pres 
ent?"  Her  black  eyes  tore  through  him. 

Fenton  was  conscious  that  every  one  in  the  hotel 
lobby  was  staring  at  them.  "Sure  thing,"  he  said, 


158  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

and  then  added,  commandingly,  "That  is,  if  you  eat 
on  me." 

"Nothing  like  that  in  my  family,"  said  Millie 
gayly.  "I  just  drew  my  alimony.  I'm  just  padded 
with  greenbacks." 

"None  of  that  suffragette  stuff!"  said  Fenton 
sternly,  keenly  conscious  that  he  could  not  pay  for 
a  postage  stamp. 

"Don't  you  get  gay,  boyo !  Don't  you  know  I  in 
vited  you?  Be  good,  now,  and  come  on  in!" 

"Well,  we'll  settle  it  later,"  said  Fenton,  and 
threw  all  responsibility  to  the  winds,  leading  the 
way  to  a  table.  He  threw  out  his  chest  and  his  el 
bows  as  he  walked,  strutting  as  nearly  like  the  pic 
tures  he  had  seen  in  "Puck"  as  he  could  do  it.  Oh, 
if  he  had  only  listened  more  carefully  to  that  office 
boy! 

As  they  sat  down,  every  one  in  the  restaurant 
turned  to  look  at  the  party.  Was  it  on  account  of 
the  miraculous  blonde?  She  would  have  attracted 
attention  in  a  herd  of  angels.  Was  it  on  account  of 
the  saucily  pretty  brunette,  the  dainty  devil  in  petti 
coats,  with  her  flashing  eyes  ?  No.  Fenton  realized, 
with  a  sudden  pang  of  alarm,  that  they  had  turned 
to  stare  at  Whack  Harrison,  the  ex-welter-weight 


THE  CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      159 

champion  of  America.  The  responsibility  of  his 
role  almost  overcame  him.  If  he  were  to  act  the 
pugilist  there  might  be  deeds  as  well  as  words  re 
quired.  Who  could  tell  what  turn  of  the  wheel 
might  force  him  to  make  good  with  his  fists?  Such 
hero-worship  as  that  with  which  the  two  ladies  flat 
tered  him  might  be  a  bit  too  dangerous.  He  had 
never  had  a  real,  out-and-out  fight  in  his  life !  Lo, 
he  had  swaggered  into  the  hotel  full  of  cheek  and 
confidence !  Already  the  admiration  he  had  so  vicari 
ously  received  had  made  him  three  parts  a  coward. 
Would  he  have  to  make  his  exit  in  an  ambulance  ? 

"Say,  Whack,"  said  Millie,  leaning  to  him  confi 
dentially,  "D'you  know  why  I  wanted  to  see  you 
so  bad?  I'll  put  you  wise.  There's  a  fresh  little 
crab  out  there  in  the  lobby  that's  been  getting  too 
gay  with  us  girls  altogether.  D'you  mind  going 
out  there  a  minute  and  stroking  him  just  one  jab 
for  luck?" 

Fenton's  stomach  flattened  with  fear.  Miss  Dia 
mond  turned  her  violet  eyes  upon  him.  He  could 
scarcely  bear  to  look  at  her.  "Hand  him  one  for 
me,  Mr.  Harrison,"  she  said  dreamily,  and  smiled 
a  bewitching  smile.  "I  won't  have  no  appetite  till 
I  know  he's  good  and  lame," 


160  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Who  is  he  ?"  Fenton  inquired,  trying  to  keep  his 
knees  from  knocking  together. 

"That's  him,  now!"  Millie  pointed  to  a  man 
standing  in  the  narrow  doorway.  He  had  an  evil 
face.  Fenton  estimated  his  weight  at  over  two  hun 
dred  pounds.  "It's  Billy  Presto,  you  know,  Whack, 
— 'Lightning'  O'Donnell's  sparring  partner.  Lord, 
you  can  eat  him  up !  Don't  be  long !"  and  she  sped 
him  to  his  doom  with  a  flashing  smile. 

Fenton  rose  and  walked  out,  trembling  all  over. 
His  only  coherent  idea  was  to  make  a  quick  escape. 
The  cloakroom  boy  had  taken  his  hat,  but  he  would 
forego  that.  He  would  escape  out  the  side  entrance. 
He  had,  indeed,  already  hurriedly  started  that  way, 
when  Mr.  Presto  approached  him,  and  slapped  a 
heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Hello,  Whack,"  he  said.  "How  goes  it?  Have 
a  cigar !" 

Fenton's  wits  buzzed.  "Say,  I  was  just  looking 
for  you,  Presto,"  he  said.  "They  was  a  couple  of 
swell  skirts  round  here  looking  for  you  a  half  an 
hour  ago." 

"Oh,  is  that  so?  Who  were  they?"  Presto  was 
immediately  intrigued. 

"In  a  limousine  car,  they  were.    A  little  one  and 


THE   CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      161 

a  bigger  one.  Nectarines!"  Fenton  improvised. 
"Crazy  to  find  you.  But  wouldn't  tell  their  names. 
Said  if  I  see  you  to  say  they'd  wait  for  you  at  the 
Cafe  Martin.  Important!"  Fenton  gazed,  with  a 
fine  air  of  candor,  at  Billy  Presto,  but  ready  to 
jump  away  from  his  fist  at  the  first  sign  of  incre 
dulity. 

The  scheme  worked.  "Thanks,  old  man,  bye-bye, 
I'll  skip  right  down  there!"  and  Mr.  Presto  had 
gone. 

Fenton  returned  to  the  dining-room  a  little  faint 
and  wobbly.  "Well,  I  threw  a  good  scare  into 
him,"  he  explained,  as  he  sat  down.  "I  guess  he 
won't  try  to  do  no  more  goo-goo  work  round  here 
for  one  while.  What  d'you  want  to  eat,  Millie?" 

"Oh,  we've  ordered."  Millie  looked  at  him  ad 
miringly.  "Say,  you're  a  wiz,"  she  commented. 
"Now,  if  that  guy  over  at  that  table  there  don't  try 
any  cute  business  on  me,  we  can  have  supper." 

"Where  is  he  ?"  Fenton  demanded. 

"Now,  Millie,  we  don't  want  no  fuss  here,"  said 
Miss  Diamond. 

Millie  subsided,  but  was  pleased.  Fenton's  appe 
tite  was  gone.  With  every  fond  look  his  compan 
ions  lavished  upon  him  he  became  more  craven. 


162  FIND  THE   WOMAN 

Well,  he  must  at  least  put  on  a  "front."  He  cud 
geled  his  brain  for  memories  of  the  office  boy's  talk. 

"When  are  you  going  to  meet  Jake  Kilgore 
again?"  Millie  asked  him. 

"Next  month,  I  guess.  Say,  you  leave  it  to  me 
this  time!  I'm  going  to  train  on  nitric  acid  and 
iron  filings  and  live  rats.  Take  it  from  me,  girl, 
I'll  make  him  think  of  home  and  mother  before  the 
first  round  is  over.  When  I  unhook  my  right  and 
connect  with  his  dial,  he'll  act  like  a  ferry  boat  with 
a  boy  captain  in  a  smoky  fog.  Say,  did  you  ever 
see  a  Mogul  locomotive  run  over  a  pin  ?  That's  me 
and  Kilgore.  I'm  the  choo-choo,  see?  Why,  he'll 
be  a  Royal  Stuart  plaid  all  over  when  I  finish.5' 

At  this  moment  the  waiter,  pouring  Millie's 
champagne,  hit  the  chair  with  his  elbow,  and  the 
wine  spilled  in  Millie's  lap.  She  gave  a  cry  of 
anger  and  began  to  mop  her  skirt  with  her  napkin. 
Fenton  turned  pale.  Must  he  kill  the  waiter?  He 
jumped  up  and  looked  wildly  about  him  for  an  es 
cape.  Miss  Diamond  put  a  fairy  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"Oh,  don't  make  a  fuss,  Mr.  Harrison !"  she  be 
sought. 

"I'll  smash  him  into  a  biscuit  Tortoni !"  he  roared. 


THE  CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      163 

Millie  laughed.  "Oh,  Whack,  really  it  was  my 
fault!  Don't  hurt  him !" 

Fenton  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  sat  down,  glow 
ering,  and  the  waiter  made  bold  to  approach  and 
tender  his  apologetic  services.  It  was  a  narrow 
escape. 

"If  I'd  unloosed  that  lariat  wallop  of  mine,"  said 
Fenton  deliberately,  glowering  at  the  unfortunate 
waiter,  "I'd  have  cut  his  head  off  just  like  slicing 
an  apple.  But,  good  Lord,  what's  the  use  of  muti 
lating  a  Swede?  It  would  muss  me  all  up."  He 
turned  modestly  to  his  oysters. 

"My,  but  you're  savage !"  murmured  the  blonde, 
and  she  looked  at  him  in  a  dreamy  rhapsody  that 
made  Fenton  turn  his  eyes  away  for  fear  of  being 
hypnotized.  Yes,  she  was  too  beautiful;  she  made 
him  feel  weak.  A  dozen  admiring  sentences  rose 
to  his  lips — but  he  knew  so  well  she  had  heard  them 
all  before  that  he  would  not  speak  them.  He  turned 
to  Millie,  better  able  to  compete  with  her  sprightly 
smile.  It  stimulated  him.  She  plied  him  with  ques 
tions.  She  was  curious  as  to  everything  connected 
with  his  supposititious  profession.  Between  her 
catechism  and  Miss  Diamond's  ravishing  smiles 
Fenton  found  it  hard  to  keep  his  head.  His  fictions 


1 64  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

grew  wilder;  he  narrated  impossible  battles  in  the 
squared  ring.  He  professed  to  know  every  one 
they  mentioned,  and  indulged  in  fanciful  flights  of 
biography.  But,  all  the  while,  he  was  waiting  for 
his  bluff  to  be  called.  His  exposure  was  momentar 
ily  imminent. 

He  was  aroused  from  these  forebodings  by  the 
sight  of  a  colossal  man  standing  in  the  doorway, 
looking  over  the  throng.  He  was  a  human  masto 
don,  with  a  sour  and  ugly  look  that  made  Fenton's 
flesh  creep  on  his  bones.  The  man's  face  was  bat 
tered  and  crooked,  he  had  the  jaw  of  a  bulldog.  To 
Fenton's  horror,  he  looked  over  at  the  ladies  and 
scowled  meaningly. 

"My  God,"  said  Millie,  "it's  Jim!  What'll  we 
do?  He'll  be  terrible  jealous.  Oh,  Whack,  you 
will  protect  me,  won't  you?"  She  laid  her  hand  on 
Fenton's  with  a  quick,  convulsive  grasp. 

Even  Miss  Diamond  awakened  from  her  dreamy 
pose.  "He'll  make  a  fuss,  sure!  Oh,  Mr.  Har 
rison,  don't  hit  him !  We'd  better  get  away  quick !" 
Her  eyes  shot  blue  sparks,  now;  she  was  wide 
awake  and  without  coquetry.  Fenton  trembled.  He 
half  arose  to  fly,  but  was  held  by  Millie's  eager 
hand,  The  man  stalked  sullenly  over  to  the  table. 


THE   CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      165 

"See  here;  what  the  devil  does  this  mean,  Mil 
lie?  I  thought  you  was  a-goin'  to  eat  with  me?" 
His  voice  thundered.  All  eyes  in  the  room  turned 
to  him.  Millie  was  too  frightened  to  speak.  So, 
for  that  matter,  was  Fenton. 

"Who  is  this  little  shrimp,  anyway  ?"  the  stranger 
demanded.  "Say,  young  fellow,  you  better  light 
out  before  I  kick  you  out." 

Fenton  jumped  up  and  looked  about,  ready  to 
dodge  the  first  blow. 

"What's  that  you  called  me?"  he  demanded,  with 
what  belligerency  he  could  muster.  His  heart  was 
in  his  mouth. 

"For  God's  sake,  Whack,  don't  hit  him!  Don't 
make  a  scene."  It  was  the  violet-eyed  blonde  who 
screamed. 

"Hit  me!"  the  big  man  ejaculated.  "Why,  I'll 
make  mashed  potatoes  of  him  in  three  minutes,  if 
he  don't  get  out  of  here!" 

Millie  shrieked.  "Don't  you  touch  him,  Jim! 
He'll  kill  you,  if  he  turns  himself  loose.  Why,  it's 
Whack  Harrison,  you  fool!" 

The  big  man  stared.  At  that  minute  a  waiter 
came  by  with  an  armful  of  dishes,  looking  the  other 
way. — Smash!  he  charged  full  tilt  into  Fenton's 


i66  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

back.  Fenton  fell  forward  toward  Jim,  and  put 
out  his  hands  to  save  himself.  At  the  same  instant, 
a  fat  German  with  a  napkin  tucked  into  his  collar, 
who  was  stolidly  cutting  a  dill  pickle  at  the  next 
table,  punctured  the  rind,  and  the  juice  gushed 
forth.  The  two  accidents  were  exactly  timed.  Fen- 
ton's  outstretched  hands  fell  hard  on  the  big  man's 
chest,  and  a  stream  of  brine  hit  Jim  in  the  right  eye. 
He  stumbled,  fell  backward,  wildly  waving  his 
hands.  All  over  the  room  spectators  shouted  and 
rose  to  their  feet  to  witness  the  fray.  The  head 
waiter  came  running  up.  Fenton,  too,  had  fallen, 
and  fallen  upon  his  prostrate  foe.  His  companions 
mingled  their  shrieks  with  those  of  the  crowd. 

"Don't  let  him  get  at  him!  He'll  murder  him!" 
the  girls  entreated.  "If  he  gets  mad,  he'll  beat  him 
to  pieces!  He's  Whack  Harrison!" 

Fenton  hardly  knew  what  had  happened  before 
three  waiters  pulled  him  off  Jim's  supine  body. 
They  raised  him  respectfully,  however,  anxiously 
protecting  themselves  from  his  rage.  The  head 
waiter  came  up  to  him  and  tried  to  calm  Fenton 
down,  apologized,  promised  no  further  annoyance, 
protested  his  own  regrets,  and  then  majestically 
ordered  the  stranger  to  be  removed  from  the  room. 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      167 

Angry  as  a  trapped  gorilla,  shouting  out  hideous 
oaths,  Jim  struggled  against  some  seven  or  eight 
waiters  and  guests.  The  war  raged  all  the  way  to 
the  door  of  the  dining-room,  where  the  porters  took 
a  hand.  There  the  house  detective  had  already  tele 
phoned  for  the  police.  The  lobby  was  rilled  with 
strugglers  and  profanity  till  the  law  arrived  and  two 
stalwart  officers  hustled  the  unfortunate  man  into 
the  patrol  wagon.  Then  the  guests  who  had  left 
their  tables  to  watch  the  riot  returned,  gossiping 
and  laughing,  to  the  cafe.  Men  stared  at  Fenton 
in  awe.  Ladies  gazed  at  him  and  talked  under 
their  breaths.  It  took  some  time  for  the  confusion 
to  simmer  down  and  order  to  be  restored. 

All  this  while  Fenton  sat,  proudly,  staring  at 
vacancy  with  a  forced  smile  upon  his  lips.  The  talk 
around  him  buzzed  of  upper  cuts  and  hooks, 
punches,  wallops  and  knockouts.  The  blonde  tim 
idly  put  the  question  that  was  agitating  the  whole 
room. 

"What  was  that  punch  you  gave  him,  Mr.  Har 
rison?"  she  inquired  with  the  lovelight  in  her  melt 
ing  violet  eyes. 

Fenton  considered  it  at  leisure.  "Oh,  that  smash  ? 
That  was  a  new  one — my  own  invention.  I  call 


1 68  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

it  the  straight-arm  double  dill  jab.  It's  got  the 
corkscrew  to  the  solar  plexus  beaten  to  a  whisper. 
You  work  it  like  this."  And  Fenton  illustrated  a 
complicated  evolution  with  his  left  fist  directed 
against  a  champagne  bottle. 

"What  are  you  doing  now  ?"  Fenton  asked,  as  the 
supper  proceeded.  So  far  he  knew  little  of  his  com 
panions,  and,  if  he  was  to  get  help  from  them,  he 
must  make  haste. 

"  The  Girl  in  Red/  "  said  Millie.  "Ain't  you 
been  to  see  the  show  yet?" 

Fenton  confessed  his  ignorance  of  the  play. 

"Pm  wearing  twelve  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
costumes,"  said  Miss  Diamond.  "Four  changes. 
You  ought  to  come." 

It  was  then  Fenton  disclosed  the  full  depths  of  his 
innocence.  "What  part  do  you  play?"  he  asked. 

The  ladies  screamed  with  mirth.  "Play  a  part! 
That's  good!  Say,  Whack,  do  we  look  foolish 
enough  to  spend  our  time  learning  lines,  with  our 
shape?  What's  the  use  of  being  a  'perfect  thirty- 
six?'  Forget  it.  You  can  always  get  girls  to  work 
for  a  living.  We're  clothes-horses.  Why,  kid,  d'you 
really  think  we  could  keep  motor  cars  and  wear  gen- 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      169 

nine  blue  fox,  if  we  had  to  bark,  mew  and  bray 
when  a  dub  stage  manager  told  us?  Not  on  your 
mezzotint !" 

"Oh,"  said  Fenton,  edified.  "Then  you're  show 
girls?" 

"Professional  beauties,"  murmured  Miss  Dia 
mond.  "We're  what  men  buy  opera-glasses  for." 

"But  I  had  no  idea  showgirls  got  such  good  sal 
aries!" 

The  girls  looked  at  each  other,  shook  their  heads, 
and  then  smiled  at  their  interlocutor.  Millie  patted 
Fenton's  hand.  "Say,  kid,  you  may  be  all  right 
with  your  ring  tactics,  but  you  never  ought  to  be 
caught  thinking  in  public  when  they's  ladies  present. 
Eighteen  a  week  is  our  regular  pay.  The  rest  is 
perquisites." 

"Oh,  I  got  a  trade,  too.  Ever  traveled  on  the 
subway?"  Miss  Diamond  added.  "I'm  the  lady 
with  'After-Dinner  Gumdrops' — on  a  three-sheet. 
That's  right.  Also  the  T.  D.  Slick  Overshoes'  and 
the  'O-I-Wansum  Beer.'  " 

She  yawned  and  tapped  her  red  lips  the  while,  as 
if  she  were  playing  a  tune.  "I  say,  Millie,  did  you 
read  in  the  paper  where  Janey  Davis  had  made  a 
horrible  punch  in  London?" 


1 70  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Sure.  She's  starring — what  d'you  think  of  that! 
Why,  I  knew  her  when  she  was  an  extra  girl,  too! 
She  was  a  freak,  for  fair.  Did  I  ever  tell  you 
about  her  and  Mansfield  ?" 

Miss  Diamond  shook  her  head  disinterestedly, 
but  as  Fenton  politely  professed  a  desire  to  hear, 
Millie  took  a  final  sip  of  champagne  and  began  the 
story : 


THE   GIRL   WHO    KNEW    MANSFIELD 

Yes,  her  real  name  was  Jane  Davis.  Ain't  that 
a  scream?  For  Heaven's  sake,  what's  the  use  of 
going  on  the  stage  if  you  can't  beat  the  label  you 
had  when  you  lived  back  in  Baraboo  ?  When  I  asked 
her  about  it  she  only  said :  "Why,  that's  my  mother's 
name;  and  I  guess  if  it's  good  enough  for  her  it's 
good  enough  for  me."  Then  she  looked  at  me  with 
her  big,  hungry,  brown  eyes,  like  a  little  kid  on  the 
corner  watching  a  hokey-pokey  cart. 

She  certainly  was  a  queer  one.  Never  had  no  use 
for  men — and  not  much  for  women,  either,  at  least 
not  them  in  the  company.  She  used  to  sit  around 
in  corners  watching  the  rehearsals  while  the  bunch 
was  carrying  on  and  having  fun.  She  used  to  talk 


THE  CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      171 

queer,  too.  Never  was  up-to-date  at  all;  couldn't 
jolly  up  for  a  cent.  Remember  how  we  used  to  guy 
her  for  saying  "not  having  had"  and  "were  it  not 
that?"  Why,  she  couldn't  understand  our  slang 
half  the  time.  Sort  of  country,  you  know.  Talked 
like  a  reading-book. 

That  was  when  we  was  in  the  "Sinfire"  company 
— my  name  then  was  Gloria  Moyle  and  I  was  just 
one  of  the  bunch  in  the  chorus  trying  to  get  solid 
with  the  stage  manager.  Jane  Davis  was  drawing 
twelve  a  week.  She  had  one  line  in  the  third  act. 
She  lived  with  her  mother  in  one  room  way  over 
on  East  Nineteenth  Street. 

Well,  say,  she  was  hard  up,  all  right.  Believe  me, 
she  used  to  walk  all  over  New  York  barefoot. 
D'you  know  what  I  mean?  She  had  what  looked 
like  shoes,  but  they  wan't  nothing  really  but  a  pair 
of  uppers.  The  soles  were  wore  clear  through,  and 
so  was  her  stockings,  I  give  her  an  old  pair  of 
rubbers  one  day,  and  she  wore  'em  regular  after 
that.  The  girls  used  to  guy  her  about  it  something 
fierce. 

Hard  up  ?  You  bet !  Didn't  I  tell  you  her  mother 
had  rheumatic  fever?  That's  right!  The  landlady 
put  her  out  of  the  house  once,  she  groaned  so  loud 


1 72  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

when  she  was  took  bad.  O'  course  it  cost  Jane 
about  all  she  could  hold  out  for  doctors  and  medi 
cines  and  all  that.  Twelve  dollars  don't  go  far. 

Nobody  in  the  company  ever  thought  Jane  was 
anything  more  than  a  fool.  You  see,  she  was  so 
queer,  and  she'd  never  make  up  to  men  or  anything. 
She  wasn't  pretty,  but  Lord,  she  could  have  grafted 
all  the  free  eggs  she  wanted  if  she'd  just  thrown  a 
grin  or  two  round — plenty  of  the  boys  would  have 
staked  her  to  an  eat.  But  no,  nothing  doing  with 
Janey.  Strictly  on  the  prim.  She  had  straight 
black  hair  that  she  wore  funny — not  a  blessed  rat  in 
it- — a  freak  style  of  her  own;  say,  it  was  a  scream! 
She  did  have  pretty  hands,  though ;  and  that  was  a 
funny  thing,  too;  she  could  almost  talk  with  'em. 
Her  mouth  was  just  like  a  baby's — sort  of  trembly 
and  changing  all  the  time,  always  different — you 
know  how  a  kid's  face  works — no  repose.  All  the 
same,  when  Janey  Davis  got  mad — believe  me,  then 
she  was  a  devil!  She  could  just  make  the  chills 
crawl  up  and  down  your  back.  But  you'd  never 
believe  it,  to  see  her  sitting  in  a  corner  reading  a 
book.  You  could  almost  tell  what  the  story  was 
about  just  by  watching  her  face. 

Now,  what  was  I  going  to  tell  you?     Oh,  yes! 


THE   CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      173 

About  Mansfield.  Why,  a  gentleman  friend  of 
mine,  Dusty  Mclntyre,  it  was,  him  and  me  was 
pretty  thick  that  year,  he  gave  me  a  couple  of  seats 
for  Mansfield  at  the  New  Amsterdam  one  day.  He 
got  'em  off  one  of  the  stage  managers — you  know 
how  Mansfield  used  to  carry  around  about  twenty- 
seven  different  varieties  of  'em?  Of  course,  I  nat 
urally  didn't  go  much  on  that  high-brow  stuff  like 
"Peer  Gynt,"  and  I  was  sore  the  pass  wasn't  for  the 
"Follies  of  1907."  But  Janey  was  in  the  dressing- 
room  when  I  got  a  piece  of  a  burnt  match  in  my  eye, 
and  she  took  it  out  for  me  after  everybody  else 
wouldn't  do  it,  and  so  I  asked  her  did  she  want  to 
go.  Say,  you  ought  to  seen  that  girl!  She  was  as 
excited  as  if  Rockefeller  had  asked  her  to  get  mar 
ried.  So  we  went.  Believe  me,  I  near  went  to 
sleep  in  the  theater.  The  show  didn't  have  no  gin 
ger  in  it.  Slow. 

Well,  you  take  it  from  me,  if  that  girl  had  just 
come  intoi  town  from  southwestern  Missouri,  she 
couldn't  have  acted  more  like  a  fool.  She  didn't 
hardly  speak  only  just  twice  in  the  whole  show.  In 
the  first  act,  you  know,  where  Peer  Gynt  comes  on 
like  a  fourteen-year-old  boy  and  lays  down  on  the 
stage  and  kicks  up  his  heels,  Janey  turned  round 


i/4  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

and  looks  at  me  with  her  big  brown  eyes,  and 
she  whispers,  "Who's  that?"  I  says,  uWhy,  that's 
Mansfield,  you  little  jay!"  "Oh,"  she  says,  "I 
thought  he  was  a  man!"  Lord,  how  she  stared! 
Then  in  a  minute  what  does  she  do  but  begin  to 
cry.  Can  you  beat  it?  There  he  was,  as  funny  as 
a  kitten  with  a  catnip  ball,  doing  kid  stunts  so  you'd 
split  laughing,  and  Janey  blubbering  away  for  fair. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  she  was  queer?  I  never  got  an 
other  word  out  of  the  girl  till  the  last  act.  You 
know  where  they  have  that  auction  scene  and 
Mansfield  comes  on  as  an  old  man.  Then  Janey 
asked  me  again  just  like  before.  She  says,  "Who's 
that?"  I  says,  "Ain't  you  got  a  program,  or  what? 
That's  Mansfield,  o'  course !  Who  else  would  it  be 
— Clyde  Fitch  ?"  And  then  she  begins  to  cry  again, 
soft,  to  herself.  I  sat  and  watched  the  tears  drip 
down  her  face  like  a  leaky  hot  water  bag.  She 
certainly  was  a  fool. 

Well,  we  blew  into  Riker's  to  have  a  pistache 
soda  after  the  show  and  I  just  asked  her  what  she 
was  crying  at.  She  says,  "Oh,  he  made  me  see  all 
sorts  of  things  that  wan't  on  the  stage,  at  all.  I 
thought  I  was  somewheres  else,"  she  says.  What 
d'you  think  of  that!  What's  a  theater  for,  any- 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      175 

way  ?  It's  to  show  the  act  the  author  wants  showed, 
and  that's  all.  Ain't  that  right?  But  I  couldn't 
make  Janey  see  it  that  way.  Would  you  think  a 
yap  like  her  could  ever  act  ? 

Well,  next  noon  I  run  down  to  her  room  to  get 
her  to  put  a  touch  on  a  hat  I'd  just  bought.  I'd 
paid  eighteen  dollars  for  it,  but  it  wan't  quite  right. 
Janey  had  a  way  of  pulling  ribbons  round  so  you'd 
swear  a  hat  was  just  imported.  Clever,  she  was, 
too,  in  a  way.  Ought  really  to  have  been  a  milliner. 
Her  mother  was  in  bed  as  usual,  groaning  away 
something  fierce,  and  Janey  was  writing  on  an  old 
brown  paper  bag,  ironed  out  flat.  I  offered  to  give 
her  some  paper,  but  no,  she  wouldn't  never  take 
nothing  from  nobody.  I  asked  her  what  it  was,  and 
she  looked  up  kind  of  queer  and  she  said  she  was 
writing  a  letter  to  Mr.  Mansfield.  Can  you  beat 
it?  Mashed!  And  him  getting  his  thousands  a 
week! 

"What  are  you  writing  to  him?"  I  says. 

She  smiled  awful  queer,  and  she  says,  "I'm  tell 
ing  him  something  I'll  bet  nobody  has  ever  told  him 
before,"  she  says.  "I  know  a  lot  of  things  about 
him  nobody  knows,"  she  says.  Well,  that  got  me 
mad.  Didn't  she  have  a  nerve?  Nothing  but  an 


1 76  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

extra  girl,  practically,  at  twelve  a  week,  and  him  a 
star!    I  was  paralyzed. 

"If  you  know  all  that,"  I  says,  "it's  a  wonder  you 
ain't  starring  yourself !"  And  she  says,  "there's  an 
other  day  coming,"  she  says,  "and  I'll  have  my 
chance  yet !"  She  made  me  sick.  Just  one  line  was 
all  she  had  in  the  production.  Why,  she  never  even 
had  her  name  on  the  program!  Mine  was  in  with 
the  Butterflies  and  Patagonian  Peasants  and  the 
Merry-Marys, — three  times  in  all ! 

You  may  not  believe  it,  but  about  a  week  after 
that  she  come  into  our  dressing-room  and  says,  "See 
here,  I  want  to  show  you  something!"  What  d'you 
think?  She  sure  had  a  photograph  of  Richard 
Mansfield,  with  his  name,  and  some  writing  on  it, 
too.  "What  is  it,  Latin?"  I  says.  "No,"  says 
Janey,  "it's  French."  I  asked  her  what  did  it  say, 
and  she  smiled  and  said,  "You  wouldn't  understand, 
Moyle,  but  it's  something  like — 'Look  inside!'' 
Well,  I  certainly  didn't  understand,  all  right,  nor  I 
don't  yet;  and  I  doubt  if  she  did.  I  s'pose  Mans 
field  only  sent  it  to  her  just  for  a  cod. 

Say,  it  was  funny,  though,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  wan't  it?  Why,  Mansfield  was  a  holy 
horror — everybody  knows  that.  Nobody  could  ever 


THE   CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      177 

get  along  with  him,  women  or  men.  Why,  his  peo 
ple  used  to  leave  him  every  week.  He  used  to  fire 
about  twenty  every  night — and  then  take  'em  back. 
What  in  the  world  d'you  figure  he  sent  Janey  that 
photo  for?  It  beats  me! 

Anyway,  Janey  was  tickled  to  death  with  it. 
You'd  think  it  was  a  doll ;  she  used  to  carry  it  round 
with  her  all  the  time.  One  time  Floradora  Billings 
gate  found  it  and  drawed,  a  mustache  on  it  with 
grease  paint,  and  say,  wasn't  Janey  mad?  She 
snatched  up  a  pair  of  scissors  and  went  at  Flo  like 
a  Rocky  Mountain  wildcat,  and  the  girls  had  to  pull 
her  off.  That  was  just  before  Janey  was  put  into 
the  caste. 

We  never  knew  how  she  made  that  jump.  Some 
said  she  had  money  left  her,  and  bought  the  part; 
but  I  know  better, — Janey  never  had  a  cent  in  them 
days.  I  expect  she  wasn't  quite  as  country  as  she 
looked,  after  all,  and  worked  the  manager.  She 
couldn't  act,  anyway!  Lord,  didn't  I  know  her 
when  she  was  an  extra  woman  ?  The  idea !  I  guess 
I  know  something  about  the  stage.  Why,  Janey 
actually  had  an  idea  that  it  didn't  matter  where  you 
put  your  feet  or  your  hands.  Now,  anybody  who's 
ever  been  to  a  dramatic  school  knows  when  you  put 


178  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

out  your  right  hand  you  have  to  put  out  your  right 
foot,  and  a  lot  of  rules  like  that.  And  Janey 
couldn't  read  a  line  right  to  save  herself.  It 
sounded  just  like  ordinary  talking — it  wasn't  acting 
at  all.  And  she  knew  no  more  about  how  to  use 
her  eye-brows  than  a  cat.  Oh,  she  paid  for  her  pro 
motion  some  way,  you  bet !  That's  always  the  way. 
Talent  ain't  no  use  whatever,  compared  to  influence. 

The  day  she  was  given  the  part  of  Alfalfa,  in 
"Sinfire,"  I  came  across  her  back  near  the  property- 
room.  She  had  Mansfield's  photo  in  her  hand,  and 
she  was  a-kissing  it.  Ain't  that  the  limit?  I  was 
kind  of  mad  to  see  a  gawk  like  her  put  ahead  and 
I  says  to  her,  "If  you  got  to  kiss  him,  why  the  devil 
don't  you  kiss  him  on  the  mouth?"  She  just  give 
me  one  scared  look,  and  she  says,  "Oh,  Moyle," 
she  says,  "he's  married!"  What  d'you  know  about 
that !  Didn't  I  tell  you  she  was  a  fool  ?  She  made 
me  sick. 

"What,  are  you  stuck  on  him?"  I  says.  She 
says,  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  I'd  never  have  been 
promoted."  Now  you  couldn't  make  me  believe  he 
had  anything  to  do  with  it — I  ain't  so  easy  as  all 
that.  So  I  asked  her  what  she  meant.  She  was 
half  laughing  and  half  crying,  and  sort  of  silly. 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      179 

She  says,  "I've  learned  how  to  look  inside !'  "  she 
said.  Can  you  beat  it?  She  was  foolish.  Just 
naturally  foolish!  Hadn't  never  seen  him  off  the 
stage ! 

Well,  it  was  about  three  weeks  after  that  Janey's 
mother  died.  Janey  was  all  broke  up.  Anybody'd 
expect  she'd  be  glad  to  have  it  over  with.  Wouldn't 
you  think  it  would  have  got  on  her  nerves  to  have 
the  old  lady  mewing  like  a  tomcat  every  time  her 
shoulder-blade  ached?  She  sure  was  an  awful 
bother.  I  didn't  see  Janey — a  stage  hand  we  called 
"Violets"  told  me.  He  had  blue  eyes  and  a  broad 
grin.  He  must  have  been  kind  of  stuck  on  her — 
he  used  to  claim  she  could  act.  You  know  how 
them  stage  hands  are,  they  think  they  know  a  lot. 
He  had  an  awful  nerve.  But  wait. 

He  told  me  the  funeral  was  going  to  be  Sunday, 
but  I'd  just  made  a  date  with  Dusty  Mclntyre  to 
motor  down  to  Luna  Park,  and  so  of  course  I 
couldn't  go.  At  least  I  had  no  idea  I  could,  at  the 
time.  Dusty  looked  too  good  to  me.  So  I  just 
dropped  Janey  a  post-card  telling  her  I  was  sorry, 
and  all  that,  and  if  I  could  do  anything  to  let  me 
know. 

That  was  on  a  Friday.  After  the  matinee  next  aft- 


i8o  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

ernoon,  Janey  come  round  to  see  me,  and  she  asked 
me  would  I  lend  her  a  quarter  to  pay  for  a  telegram. 
Of  course  I  told  her  I'd  send  it  for  her.  I  felt  kind 
of  sorry  for  the  little  mouse,  and  she  handed  it  over. 
Oh — her  mother  was  at  a  little  cheap  undertaker's 
over  on  the  East  Side. 

Well,  when  I  read  that  wire,  I  nearly  had  a  fit. 
Who  d'you  think  it  was  to?  Richard  Mansfield! 
He  was  down  at  his  country  place  in  New  London. 
It  only  said :  "Mother  died  yesterday.  JANE  DAVIS." 
Wasn't  she  the  crazy  thing?  She'd  got  just  one 
photo  out  of  him,  and  on  the  strength  of  that  she'd 
gone  to  work  and  took  him  right  into  the  family !  O' 
course  I  never  sent  it.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do  at  all. 
He'd  have  been  wild.  I  told  "Violets"  about  it, 
though,  and  he  said  it  was  a  nervy  thing  to  do.  I've 
often  wondered  since  if  he  didn't  send  it  himself, 
though,  after  all. 

We  started  out  on  Sunday,  Dusty  and  me,  about 
ten  o'clock,  in  his  Panhard.  I  had  one  o'  them  two- 
toned  violet  auto  veils  and  a  yellow  silk  coat  on. 
Just  as  we  was  half-way  over  the  Williamsburgh 
bridge  something  happened  to  the  car  and  Dusty 
got  out.  I  looked  back  and  I  seen  a  funeral  coming 
and  I  got  awful  nervous,  You  know  it's  bad  luck 


THE   CAXTON   DINING   ROOM      181 

to  have  one  overtake  you.  But  I  looked  round. 
First  come  an  open  barouche,  just  crammed  with 
flowers.  I  give  you  my  word,  if  they  was  one  dol 
lar's  worth,  they  was  five  hundred.  They  was 
fairly  spilling  into  the  road.  After  that  was  the 
tackiest  hearse  I  ever  see.  Then  come  one  solitary 
hack — that's  all.  Gee !  It  was  the  bummest  funeral 
procession  I  ever  seen.  Just  as  the  hack  passed  I 
saw  Janey  through  the  window,  with  a  man  setting 
side  of  her;  I  couldn't  catch  his  face.  Then  they 
went  by  and  Dusty  fixed  his  machine  and  got  in.  I 
told  him  about  it,  and  I  says  to  him,  "Dusty,  you 
got  to  follow  that  funeral  wherever  they  go.  We 
can  run  down  to  Luna  Park  later.  They's  certainly 
something  doing  when  Jane  Davis  has  a  hack-load 
of  flowers  for  her  mother's  funeral,  and  I  want  to 
see  who's  putting  up  for  it !"  So  we  run  along  easy 
behind  'em. 

I  thought,  of  course,  it  would  be  the  potter's  field 
for  hers,  'cause  Janey  hadn't  got  any  relations  at  all 
only  her  mother.  But  no,  where  did  they  go  but  out 
to  Greenwood  Cemetery,  and  turned  in  up  to  a  lot 
under  a  big  elm  tree. 

Of  course  we  couldn't  take  the  car  in,  but  we 
stopped  where  we  could  see  who  was  there.  First 


182  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

a  man  got  out  of  the  hack  with  a  silk  hat  on;  I 
couldn't  make  him  out,  at  first.  Then  come  Janey. 
Will  you  believe  it,  she  didn't  wear  black — and  it 
was  her  own  mother's  funeral,  too !  She  had  on  the 
bum  little  blue  suit  she  always  wore.  Wan't  that 
disgraceful?  She  might  have  shown  some  respect, 
even  if  her  mother  had  led  her  a  life.  Then  the 
man  turned  round,  and  my  God,  I  see  it  was  Rich 
ard  Mansfield!  Say,  can  you  beat  it?  Richard 
Mansfield  in  a  Prince  Albert  coat  and  a  top  hat 
with  his  arm  round  Janey  Davis  like  she  was  his 
own  daughter!  And  I  give  you  my  word  he'd 
never  seen  her  before  that  day ! 

Well,  I  just  sat  there  and  gasped!  Wouldn't  you 
think  that  a  man  like  Mansfield  would  be  above  be 
ing  there  at  a  little,  miserable  two-cent  funeral — 
with  a  girl  nobody  had  ever  heard  of,  too?  I  should 
think  he'd  have  been  ashamed  of  himself!  If  a 
man  don't  respect  himself,  who  is  going  to  respect 
him,  anyway? 

Well,  that  was  queer  enough,  but  when  I  see  they 
didn't  have  no  minister  I  nearly  died.  And,  what 
d'you  think?  When  they  had  the  coffin  on  the 
ground,  side  of  the  grave,  I  couldn't  see  that  Janey 
was  crying  a  bit — Mansfield  took  a  little  black  book 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      183 

out  of  his  pocket  and  stood  up  straight  at  the 
head  of  the  coffin  and  begun  to  read.  His  voice 
was  so  loud  and  clear  we  could  almost  hear  it  from 
where  we  were.  I  was  almost  ashamed  of  the 
profession  by  that  time.  But  then,  I  always  did 
think  Mansfield  was  a  good  deal  of  a  bluff. 

Then  Dusty  says  to  me,  "Glo,  I  ain't  never  seen 
Mansfield  act.  I'm  going  to  sneak  up  near  there 
and  get  a  good  look  at  him  and  hear  him.  This  is 
where  I  get  an  orchestra  seat  free!"  Well,  I  let 
him  go,  and  I  waited  there  in  the  car. 

Well,  Dusty  walked  up  near  0ie  lot.  I  could  see 
him  standing  there,  listening,  and  after  a  while  he 
drew  up  nearer.  When  they  begun  to  lower  the 
coffin  into  the  grave  Dusty  come  walking  back  slow. 
I  called  out  to  him  to  hurry,  for  I  was  terrible 
afraid  Janey'd  spot  me  rubbering.  In  that  yellow 
coat,  too!  When  he  got  a  little  nearer  I  see  the 
tears  was  just  rolling  down  his  cheeks.  Dusty  Mc- 
Intyre  was  crying  like  a  kid !  Ain't  that  the  limit  ? 
I  asked  him  what  in  the  world  he  was  crying  about, 
and  he  said  it  was  something  about  his  voice — 
Mansfield's  voice.  It  got  to  him,  some  way,  I  dun- 
no.  I  guyed  him  about  it  all  the  way  to  Luna  Park, 
but  somehow  Dusty  wan't  like  himself  all  day. 


184  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

That  was  in  nineteen  seven.  You  know  Mans 
field  died  about  six  months  after  that;  in  Septem 
ber,  it  was. 

Well,  I  met  Jane  Davis  at  an  agency  the  week 
after  he  died,  and  what  d'you  think !  She  was  all  in 
black !  When  I  said  something  to  her  about  Mans 
field  she  broke  right  down  and  cried.  Now,  what 
d'you  know  about  that!  A  girl  who  wouldn't  put 
on  mourning  nor  shed  a  tear  for  her  own  mother, 
had  the  nerve  to  rig  out  in  black  for  the  swellest 
star  in  the  business!  I  call  her  a  thoroughbred 
snob! 

Fenton  looked  at  the  girl,  now,  with  a  revulsion 
of  feeling.  She  no  longer  amused  him,  and  Miss 
Diamond  seemed  less  beautiful.  Already  he  had 
stayed  too  long.  And  yet  his  object  had  not  been 
accomplished. 

Miss  Diamond  yawned  again.  "Say,  Millie,  I 
got  to  get  home,"  she  said.  "Let's  go." 

At  that,  Millie  called  the  waiter  hovering  near, 
and  asked  for  the  check.  He  handed  it  to  her.  Fen- 
ton  made  a  feeble  protest,  but  she  waved  it  aside, 
and  tossed  him  a  gold-linked  purse  across  the  table 
cloth.  Fenton  glanced  at  the  bill,  found  it  was 


THE   CAXTON    DINING   ROOM      185 

$9.40,  and  took  out  a  crisp,  new  ten-dollar  bill. 
The  waiter  fled. 

There  would  be  sixty  cents  change,  thought  Fen- 
ton.  Part  of  that  he  must  have — and  make  his 
escape.  He  watched  the  waiter  to  the  cashier's  desk 
and  saw  him  returning.  He  calculated  the  time  to 
a  second,  and,  just  as  the  man  was  within  six  feet 
of  him,  he  called  out,  pointing  to  the  door : 

"Gosh!  there's  your  friend  back  already!" 

The  girls  turned  and  gazed.  Fenton  took  the 
dime  from  the  proffered  plate,  slipped  it  into  his 
pocket,  and  handed  Millie  her  purse.  It  was  a  vic 
tory.  The  waiter  stood  and  stared  contemptuously. 
What  did  Fenton  care  ?  Not  a  whit !  Now,  to  get 
away! 

The  cloak  room  boy  brought  him  his  hat,  and,  as 
he  waited  for  a  tip,  Fenton  eagerly  collogued  the 
blonde.  The  three  walked  to  the  hotel  lobby. 
Obsequious  head  waiters  gazed  at  them  in  admira 
tion.  A  buzz  went  through  the  corridor  when  Fen 
ton,  alias  Whack  Harrison,  appeared.  He  was  the 
hero  of  the  place.  He  glanced  at  the  clock.  Both 
hands  stood  at  eleven.  He  must  hurry. 

"Say,  you  can  take  us  home,  if  you  want, 
Whack !"  Millie's  fond  eyes  shot  sparks  at  him, 


i86  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "just  wait  till  I  get  some 
cigarettes." 

He  turned,  walked  to  the  cigar  counter  and  be 
yond.  Once  out  of  sight,  he  ran  for  the  side  door. 


VIII 
THE   SUBWAY   EXPRESS 

CONCERNING  THE  PHILOSOPHIC  THEORY  OF  PROFAN 
ITY  AS  AN   ART,   AND  ITS   PRACTICAL  APPLICA 
TION  AS  A  SCIENCE;  AND  THE  DOINGS  OF 
FENTON'S  EX-MASTER 

WITH  a  grim  smile  upon  his  lips  and  a  great 
strain  off  his  mind,  John  Fenton  emerged 
stealthily  from  the  side  entrance  of  the  Hotel  Cax- 
ton  and  walked  rapidly  toward  Times  Square.  His 
adventure  had  been  like  a  dream — like  a  dream  it 
had  been  silly,  but  splendid.  What  he  had  been 
through  that  evening,  since  first  he  approached 
Times  Square,  as  he  was  approaching  now !  He  had 
a  dime  in  his  pocket  as  he  walked  into  the  lobby  of 
the  Hotel  Knickerbocker  to  collect  his  thoughts  and 
lay  his  plans. 

Should  he  try  again  to  get  the  octoroon  on  the 
telephone  and  leave  it  to  chance  to  get  back  from 
down-town?  He  sat  down  at  a  table  and  looked  at 
his  dime  thoughtfully,  then  grimly  decided  to  leave 


i88  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

it  to  Fate.  Fate  evidently  had  him  in  mind,  that 
night,  so  let  come  what  would.  Heads  for  precau 
tion,  and  the  saving  of  five  cents  for  his  return; 
tails  for  communication  with  the  octoroon  and  luck. 
He  tossed  up  the  coin,  and  it  fell  tails  up.  So  mote 
it  be!  He  walked  to  a  drug  store  and  rang  up  the 
King  William  Hotel.  Miss  Green  had  registered, 
said  the  clerk,  but  did  not  answer.  Selah!  The 
fates  would  provide,  and,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips, 
like  a  desperate  traveler  who  casts  himself  into  a 
stream  without  a  ford,  hoping  to  get  to  the  other 
side  safely,  Fenton  plunged  into  the  subway  and 
took  a  local  train  to  the  Grand  Central  Station, 
where  he  transferred  to  a  down-town  express. 

He  must  get  to  the  St.  Paul  Building.  What  he 
could  accomplish  there,  how  he  could  possibly  re 
cover  the  jewels,  he  had  no  idea.  But,  once  launched 
upon  this  adventurous  emprise,  he  was  determined 
to  see  it  through  and  make  what  fight  he  could.  It 
worried  him  that  he  had  to  work  in  the  dark,  with 
no  help  or  guidance,  but  he  had  no  choice. 

There  were  only  two  passengers  in  the  car  he  en 
tered.  One  was  a  stout  man-o'-war  Jackie  consid 
erably  under  the  influence  of  a  joyous  shore-leave, 
the  other  a  globular,  puffy  gentleman  with  a  pirat- 


THE   SUBWAY    EXPRESS  189 

ical  mustache  which  he  seemed  to  be  continually 
eating.  Fenton  sank  into  a  reverie,  and  his  thoughts 
wandered  like  a  homing  dove  to  Belle  Charmion. 
Who  was  she? — what  had  she  intended  to  say  to 
him? — what  mysterious  fate  was  bringing  them 
continually  together? 

Suddenly,  he  awoke  from  his  musing  to  find  the 
train  had  stopped.  He  waited  for  several  minutes 
and  it  did  not  start.  Local  after  local  passed  them 
by,  with  the  exasperating  way  that  locals  have  of 
beating  the  express  when  the  track  is  blocked.  He 
went  forward  to  speak  to  the  guard,  and  found  the 
door  locked.  There  was  some  trouble  ahead. 

The  sailor  began  to  swear.  His  impatience  grew 
more  and  more  profane.  He  would  lose  his  ship, 
he  would  be  rebuked,  he  didn't  care  so  much  for  the 
money,  but  to  think  that  he  had  to  be  at  the  mercy 
of  a  landlubber's  hole-in-the-ground.  All  this  em 
bellished  with  horrid  adjectives. 

Fenton  smiled  and  returned  to  his  seat.  The 
puffy  gentleman  came  over  and  asked  what  was  the 
matter.  Fenton  didn't  know.  Well,  they  had  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  The  man-o'-war's  man  became 
more  and  more  abusive. 

Again  the  man  with  the  fierce  whiskers  remarked 


190  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

that  one  had  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Nobody  could 
hurry  a  subway  train.  One  couldn't  put  a  burr  un 
der  its  tail  to  make  it  jump,  you  know.  When  he 
was  not  chewing  his  mustache  he  was  wiping  it  off 
with  the  flat  of  his  hand. 

'That  Jackie  can  sure  swear  some/'  said  Fenton, 
finally. 

"Swear?  Nonsense!  Profanity  is  a  fine  art! 
That  illiterate  chap  knows  only  the  merest  rudi 
ments." 

"Well,  they're  good  Anglo-Saxon  rudiments,  any 
way,"  Fenton  said,  smiling  at  his  friend's  serious 
tone. 

"H'm!  Anglo-Saxon!  It  takes  an  Arab  to  really 
swear.  You  can  get  a  real  sensation  in  Semetic — • 
we're  afraid  to  really  use  English  to  its  greatest  ef 
fect.  Queer,  isn't  it,  how  we  are  the  domination  of 
language?  We  have  certain  words  that  are  arbi 
trarily  considered  vulgar.  And  we  so-called  civil 
ized  people  have  come  to  the  point  when  the  only 
way  we  know  to  emphasize  our  sentiments  is  by 
spicing  them  with  impropriety.  If  that  is  the  correct 
method,  why  the  Spanish  have  done  the  best  of  all. 
The  English  come  next,  perhaps — especially  the 
Elizabethan  literature — great  power  of  invective 


THE   SUBWAY   EXPRESS  191 

they  had — look  at  John  Webster ! — but  Lord !  think 
of  the  French  and  the  Germans!  Child's  play,  sir! 
Mere  child's  play !  How  can  an  intelligent  man  con 
sider  he  gains  force  by  mentioning  a  pot  of  thunder 
or  a  sacred  color  ?  Or  calling  upon  the  thunder  and 
lightning." 

"Oh,  the  secret  of  it  is  sacrilege,  I  fancy,"  said 
Fenton,  willing  to  humor  him.  "Men  like  to  defy 
higher  powers — it  shows  courage." 

"Is  Thousand  Pots  a  higher  power  ?"  the  stranger 
replied.  "No,  sir.  The  basis  of  all  profanity  is 
sound.  The  appeal  is  not  to  the  mind,  but  to  the 
ear.  I  defy  you  to  name  a  single  oath,  modern  or 
ancient,  that  is  not  euphonious — that  doesn't  have 
an  oral  magnificence.  Wait  a  minute.  We  will 
probably  have  to  stay  here  a  while.  I'll  tell  you  a 
story  to  prove  what  I  mean.  There's  one  man  in 
Brooklyn  who  has  perfected  profanity  and  made  a 
science  of  it." 

"Here  we  go,  now,"  said  Fenton.  "I  guess  that 
was  only  a  fuse  blown  out.  I  once  knew  a  man — " 
he  began. 

The  train  had  started,  but  the  little  man  had  al 
ready  started  also,  and,  as  station  after  station  was 
slowly  passed,  he  narrated  his  story. 


192  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

THE   AFFILIATED    NON-CURSERS'    PARADE 

D'you  know,  Brooklyn  is  one  of  the  queerest 
places  in  the  whole  world!  All  sorts  of  strange,  un 
canny  things  happen;  when  you  once  cross  the 
bridge,  you're  in  a  new  world.  Your  brain  changes 
— you  begin  to  see  things  pink.  I  live  in  Brooklyn 
myself — in  some  ways  it's  as  good  as  living  abroad. 
I  imagine  Mars,  when  they  have  an  election  on,  is 
something  like  the  Borough  of  Brooklyn. 

They  call  it  the  City  of  Churches.  Huh!  I  call 
it  the  City  of  Brainkinks.  Nobody  really  knows 
anything  definite  about  the  town.  Ask  a  cop  how 
to  get  to  Flatbush  Park  Terrace,  and  he  doesn't 
know.  Nobody  knows.  If  you  get  there,  you'll 
never  find  the  way  back. 

You  wouldn't  believe  half  the  things  that  are 
true  about  Brooklyn.  Ever  hear  of  the  "King's 
County  Croquet  Club"  that  meets  at  Prospect  Park? 
I  thought  not.  What  did  I  tell  you?  What  sane 
person  would  believe  that  there  was  a  city  in  the 
United  States  that  played  croquet  nowadays? 
Championship  games,  too.  Ain't  it  awful? 

Why,  there's  a  chess  club  that  you  can  see  work 
ing  at  the  job  in  full  daylight  from  the  Brooklyn 


THE    SUBWAY   EXPRESS  193 

"L"!  Believe  me  some  of  these  games  last  for  years 
at  a  stretch — like  a  Chinese  drama.  Men  grow  old 
during  a  single  gambit.  Then  there's  the  "Flatbush 
Brides'  Cooking  Class."  Can  you  beat  that?  Think 
of  the  biscuits  like-your-wife  used  to  make! 

Why,  mister,  I  know  human  beings,  over  there, 
that  sleep  under  violet  glass  all  night  to  cure  sore 
eyes.  The  banks  fail  regularly  every  year.  They 
have  a  children's  procession  in  May — nobody  knows 
what  for.  They  sell  real  estate  that's  under  water, 
and  you  have  to  get  a  glass-bottomed  boat  to  find 
your  front  yard. 

No,  if  you're  a  Brooklynite,  when  you  come  back 
from  work  at  night  you  have  no  idea  what  your 
wife's  been  elected  to,  during  the  day.  It's  all  one 
co-operative,  co-educational  madhouse;  but  the  one 
craziest  thing  of  all  is  the  Affiliated  Non-Cursers. 
Ever  heard  of  it?  No?  I  thought  not! 

Well,  a  lot  of  religious  high-brows,  a  few  years 
ago,  formed  this  society  to  suppress  swearing. 
Every  member  is  pledged  never  to  use  a  cuss-word, 
and  to  frown  on  all  blasphemy  and  sundry.  Oh, 
when  the  executive  committee  gets  into  a  good,  fat 
row,  it's  worth  being  present.  They  have  to  mix 
Volapiik  and  Esperanto ! 


194  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Well,  the  president  of  the  society,  this  year,  is  old 
Dr.  Hopbottom.  What's  the  matter?  Every  heard 
of  him?  An  old,  yellow-skinned,  goat-bearded 
quack  doctor,  one  of  these  psalm-singing  skinflints 
— you  know !  This  year  he  proposed  a  parade  of  the 
Affiliated  Non-Cursers;  and  the  idea  caught  on 
great.  It  was  a  big  show,  but  Brooklyn  thought 
nothing  of  it.  Why,  over  there,  when  the  circus 
comes  to  town,  they  have  to  paint  the  elephants  in 
Scotch  plaids  and  put  side  whiskers  on  the  zebras 
before  any  one  will  turn  round  and  look.  People 
in  Brooklyn  see  too  much  woozly  stuff  every  day  to 
be  surprised  at  anything.  So  the  parade  didn't  at 
tract  much  attention — at  first. 

They  had  all  the  school  children  out — little  girls 
in  white  muslin  and  blue  ribbons,  boys  in  pink  sailor 
suits  with  little  white  flags.  P.  D.  Q.  Y.  M.,  the 
Social  Uplifters,  the  Sons  of  Jehu,  the  Ethical 
Army,  the  Ancient  Order  of  Goheevians,  the  Mys 
tic  Livers,  the  Anti-Dope  Fiends,  the  Shu'pm-pu- 
pm  and  everything.  Dr.  Hopbottom  certainly 
rounded  up  a  good  big  bunch  of  non-cursers.  He 
had  'em  in  platoons,  with  banners  and  badges  and 
brass  bands  and  decorated  drays  and  marshals  with 
batons,  just  like  a  regular  procession  of  the  Native 


THE    SUBWAY    EXPRESS  195 

Sons  of  the  Golden  West.  He  was  at  the  head  of 
the  parade  on  a  white  horse,  with  a  tall  hat  tied 
round  with  white  ribbons,  like  Napoleon  crossing 
the  Delaware,  solemn  as  the  Archangel  Gabriel. 
Pleased  ?  Why,  the  doctor  was  one  broad,  voluptu 
ous  grin!  He  took  off  his  hat  right  and  left  regular, 
every  block. 

So  far,  so  good.  The  parade  was  a  great  success 
till  it  got  to  a  given  point  down  by  the  Borough 
Hall.  Then  came  the  big  wind. 

There  was  an  ex-sailor  named  Gilhooligan  driv 
ing  up  a  side  street  on  a  dray  loaded  with  railroad 
iron  —  bingety-bang-slam-smash-rumble-rattle-£z/>- 
clattery-c?w#/  You  know  how  a  load  of  steel  rails 
can  yelp,  when  they're  properly  loaded  on  a  truck. 
Gilhooligan  had  four  big  black  Percherons,  and  he 
had  an  idea  he  was  operating  an  ancient  Roman 
chariot  and  the  whole  world  had  to  get  out  of  his 
way.  He  tried  to  drive  smack  through  the  middle 
of  the  procession,  but  the  non-swearing  enthusiasts 
wouldn't  have  it ;  they  sat  tight. 

Then  for  a  few  minutes,  there  was  a  sprightly 
duel  of  verbiage  and  diction.  Gilhooligan  went  at 
them  with  a  thousand  franetic  figures  of  speech, 
and  the  white-ribbon  purists  came  back  with  a  lot 


196  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

of  sterilized  and  highly  perfumed  talk  on  the  other 
side  of  the  question.  Gilhooligan  got  rather  the 
best  of  it— "Fiddlesticks!"  and  "Oh,  bother"  and 
"Mercy  me!"  had  no  show  at  all  with  the  way  he 
handled  English.  Why,  he  swung  eighteen-syllabled 
oaths  round  by  the  tail,  hitting  right  and  left.  But 
still,  they  didn't  let  him  through.  The  little  boys 
yelled  "Oh,  pickles!"  and  the  ladies  attacked  him 
with  "Ain't  he  horrid!"  Of  course  they  couldn't 
go  farther — though  for  a  little  while,  several  resig 
nations  from  the  society  were  momentarily  expected. 
Gilhooligan  talked  to  them  the  way  an  army  driver 
pets  a  mule.  Yes,  the  gift  of  tongues  certainly  de 
scended  upon  Gilhooligan,  till  the  air  was  a  deep, 
exquisite  magenta  for  miles  around.  You  could 
actually  smell  his  language. 

At  last  the  news  traveled  from  one  Sunday  school 
to  another,  clear  up  to  the  head  of  the  procession 
where  Dr.  Hopbottom  was  straddling  his  stately 
steed.  When  he  found  out  what  was  doing,  he 
turned  that  white  horse,  and  came  back  toward 
Borough  Hall  at  a  wild-bull  gallop,  the  white  rib 
bons  streaming  out  from  his  top  hat  and  his  whis 
kers  flying.  It  was  like  General  Sheridan  twenty 


THE    SUBWAY   EXPRESS  197 

miles  away.    It  was  like  Paul  Revere — it  was  like 
the  ride  from  Ghent  to  Aix. 

You  say  you've  heard  of  Dr.  Hopbottom?  Well, 
then,  you  know  what  an  ingenious  old  crank  he  is. 
Of  course  he  doesn't  swear — it's  wicked!  But  he 
had  long  ago  figured  it  out,  like  I  told  you,  what 
was  the  psychological  motive  for  curses.  Brain 
storms  have  just  got  to  happen,  sometimes,  and 
what  a  man  needs  at  such  times  is  a  good,  satisfac 
tory  bunch  of  exclamations  to  hurl  into  the  mess. 
Being  a  scientific  man  he  knew  not  only  the  cause, 
but  the  remedy.  So  it  was  easy;  he  invented  his 
own  inocuous  expletives  whenever  the  time  came. 

Well,  he  came  galloping  down  toward  the  row. 
Gilhooligan's  profanity  carried  for  about  thirteen 
city  blocks,  so  that  by  the  time  the  doctor  got  with 
in  range,  he  had  his  fires  lighted  and  steam  up.  He 
reined  up,  and  let  out  a  stream  of  talk,  something 
like  this : 

"What    the    hypo-fenyltry-brom-propionic-hiatus 
is  the  purple  matter  here,  anyway?   Why  the  syn- 
.  copated,  Senegambian  high-ball  don't  you  move  on, 
what?" 

A  thousand  voices  answered;  a  thousand  trem- 


198  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

bling  hands  pointed  angrily  to  Gilhooligan.  The 
doctor  two-stepped  his  horse  up  to  the  Irishman. 

"You  get  the  deoxidized  Dalmation  way  out  of 
here,  you  epigrammatic  blastoderm,  d'you  hear?" 

Gilhooligan  broke  loose  again.  I  can't  really 
quote  his  speech  aright.  Shorn  of  its  linguistic 
splendors  it  read  something  like:  "Move  your 
blankety-blank-dashed  line  of  unquotable  objects 
open,  and  let  me  get  through,  you  blanked  dash  of 
an  indescribable  animal,  I  want  to  get  by !" 

The  doctor  then  proceeded  to  get  mad.  He  shook 
his  fist  at  Gilhooligan  and  yelled:  "See  here,  you 
clavodeltoid  compresbyterial  galravaging  Gonop- 
teryx,  do  you  think  I'll  take  any  of  your  pansper- 
matic  post-eocene  retromorphosed  labefaction? 
You  inebriant  heliometric  hallan-shaker,  you;  you 
giscoderm,  you  green-gilled  sesquipedalian,  if  you 
give  me  any  more  of  your  cognominate  gargaristic 
fumentatious  benzaldehyde,  I'll  have  you  pragmati 
cally  arrested." 

I  wish  I  could  give  Gilhooligan's  answer,  but  I 
daren't.  If  it  were  printed  for  use  in  the  public 
schools,  it  would  have  to  be  printed  almost  exclu 
sively  in  dashes  and  asterisks. 

But  it  made  the  doctor  really  angry.   The  mem- 


THE    SUBWAY   EXPRESS  199 

bers  of  the  league  held  their  breaths,  and  gathered 
round  in  a  circle  now,  knowing  that  the  event  of  the 
evening  was  about  to  take  place.  A  hush.  The  Hop- 
bottom  mouth  got  ready  to  act.  The  doctor  shook 
his  fist  again  and  started  in  earnest.  His  voice  be 
gan  with  calmness  and  deliberation,  but  soon  rose 
high — it  swept  forth  in  a  majestic  declamation  full 
of  all  sorts  of  forte,  staccato  and  crescendo  effects  to 
the  noble  climax. 

"See  here,  you  slack-salted  transubstantiated  in- 
terdigital  germarium,  you  rantipole  sacrosciatic 
rock-barnacle  you,  if  you  give  me  any  of  your  cap- 
rantipolene  paragastrular  megalopteric  jacitation, 
I'll  make  a  lamellibranchiate  gymnomixine  parabolic 
lepidopteroid  out  of  you !  What  diacritical  right  has 
a  binominal  oxypendactile  advoutrous  holoblastic 
rhizopod  like  you  got  with  your  trinoctial  ustilagi- 
nous  Westphalian  holocaust  blocking  up  the  teleos- 
tean  way  for,  anyway !  If  you  give  me  any  more  of 
your  lunarian,  snortomaniac  hyperbolic  pylorectomy, 
I'll  skive  you  into  a  megalopteric  diatomeriferous 
auxospore!  You  queasy  Zoroastrian  son  of  a  heli- 
copteric  hypotrachelium,  you,  shut  your  logarithmic 
epicycloidal  mouth!  You  let  this  monopolitan  ma- 
crocosmic  held  form  procession  go  by  and  wait  right 


200  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

here  in  the  anagological  street.  And  no  more  of 
your  hedonistic  primordial  supervirescence,  you  rec 
tangular  quillet-eating,  vice-presidential  amoeboid, 
either!" 

Mr.  Gilhooligan  slowly  descended  from  his  dray, 
approached  Dr.  Hopbottom,  and  took  off  his  hat. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  weakly,  "but 
would  you  mind  repeating  them  last  three  remarks  ? 
I  didn't  rightly  hear." 

The  doctor,  with  sweat  dripping  from  his  yellow 
cheeks,  did  it  again,  and  then  some.  By  the  time  he 
had  finished  the  dictionary  was  pretty  well  disem 
boweled.  The  crowd  cheered. 

"I  beg  your  humble  pardon,"  said  Gilhooligan, 
when  the  doctor  had  finished.  "I  had  no  idea  it  was 
as  bad  as  that.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you.  Man  and 
boy,  I  have  followed  the  sea  for  forty  years.  I  have 
been  a  Mississippi  River  pilot,  I  have  run  a  whaler. 
I  have  been  the  mate  of  a  cockroach  schooner  and 
I've  blackbirded  all  along  the  west  coast  of  Africa. 
I  know  mules  and  I  know  niggers,  and  how  to  coax 
'em.  But  I  see  a  plain,  sea-faring  man  has  no  show 
with  a  doctor  when  it  comes  to  exhibiting  language 
in  public.  I'll  say  this  for  you ;  they  ain't  your  beat 
for  square-rigged,  black-and-tan  cursing  in  the  seven 


THE    SUBWAY    EXPRESS  201 

seas.  And  I  think  that  if  this  here  society  what's 
running  this  here  procession  can  turn  out  graduates 
of  the  noble  art  of  profanity  like  you  are,  I  want 
to  say  this :  Give  me  the  pledge,  and  I'll  sign  it.  I 
need  some  of  your  talk  in  my  business!" 

The  doctor  led  the  way,  amidst  awed  thousands, 
to  a  great  white  dray,  decorated  with  lilies.  There, 
upon  a  black  walnut  reading  desk  was  exhibited  the 
pledge  book,  a  huge  brass-bound  tome,  covered  with 
white  vellum.  Gilhooligan  mounted  the  dray,  and, 
with  great  effort,  and  much  chewing  of  his  tongue, 
he  signed  his  name.  A  chorus  of  hurrahs  was  given, 
followed  by  the  Chautauqua  salute  of  waving  hand 
kerchiefs. 

Then,  after  tying  white  ribbons  to  the  tails  of  Gil- 
hooligan's  black  horses,  and  pinning  a  pink  satin 
badge  two  feet  long  on  the  breast  of  Gilhooligan's 
jumper,  the  procession  parted  in  the  middle.  He 
drove  his  clanking  truck-load  of  railroad  iron  into 
the  space  and  Dr.  Hopbottom,  victorious,  galloped 
proudly  back  to  the  head  of  the  line. 

Twenty  little  blue-eyed  girls  in  white  muslin  were 
lifted  up  beside  Gilhooligan  the  convert,  and,  as  the 
procession  slowly  started  they  set  up,  in  their  child 
ish  treble,  their  marching  song; 


202  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Angry  words !  Oh  let  them  never 

From  the  tongue,  unbridled  slip ! 
May  the  heart's  best  impulse  ever 
Check  them  ere  they  soil  the  lip!'' 

Fenton  laughed  freely,  for  the  first  time  that 
eventful  evening.  His  memory  of  Dr.  Hopbottom 
was  still  fresh  enough  in  his  mind  for  him  to  pic 
ture  the  scene.  "What's  the  doctor  up  to,  lately?"  he 
inquired. 

"Why,  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  he  told  me  he  had 
some  great  scheme  to  make  a  thousand  dollars 
easy,"  was  the  reply.  "It  seems  he's  doing  a  little 
detective  work,  on  the  side." 

The  train  now  began  to  slow  down,  approaching 
a  station.  Fenton  glanced  out,  saw  the  sign  "Wall 
Street"  and  rose  to  go.  "Detective  work?"  he  in 
quired,  hurriedly,  "what  did  he  mean?" 

"He's  looking  after  some  lost  boy,  I  believe. 
There's  a  big  reward  offered  for  him,  and — " 

The  train  had  already  stopped.  Fenton  had  no 
time  to  hear  more,  and  the  words  bore  no  meaning 
for  him.  After  he  had  run  out,  however,  and  had 
begun  to  ascend  the  stairs  of  the  subway  exit,  the 
words  came  back  like  a  retarded  echo — "a  lost  boy 
— a  big  reward,"  and  he  stopped  suddenly  and  be- 


THE   SUBWAY   EXPRESS  203 

gan  to  think.  Dr.  Hopbottom  after  a  lost  boy?  Per 
haps  it  was  he  himself,  Fenton!  The  reappearance 
of  Mangus  O'Shea  into  his  life  had  already  stirred 
up  conjectures.  If  it  were  himself — what  could  it 
mean?  Well,  there  seemed  to  be  no  answer — of  all 
the  strange  questions  he  had  put  to  himself  con 
cerning  this  night's  adventures  nothing  as  yet  had 
any  answer  for  him.  He  seemed  destined  to  go  from 
one  mystery  to  another  blindfold.  Of  one  thing, 
however,  he  was  sure ;  the  one  mystery  he  most  de 
sired  to  have  solved  was  the  riddle :  "Who  is  Belle 
Charmion?" 


IX 
THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING 

WHEREIN    JOHN    FENTON    DISCOVERS    A    DEAD    BODY, 

REGAINS   POSSESSION   OF   CERTAIN   JEWELS,    AND 

IS  BESOUGHT  TO  TAKE  THE  PLACE  OF  A 

TITLED  IMPOSTOR 

HIS  mind  was  busy  with  her,  as  he  walked  down 
Broadway.  Belle  Charmion!  Surely  she  was 
worth  conjecture.  Belle  Charmion!  The  two 
glimpses  he  had  had  of  her,  the  few  words  they  had 
exchanged,  had  fanned  the  flame  of  fancy  which 
her  portrait  had  first  ignited.  Her  whimsical  face, 
her  graceful,  expressive  hands,  her  lithe,  slim  fig 
ure — something  in  the  quality  of  her  warm,  fresh, 
olive  skin  made  him  feel  actually  weak  when  he 
thought  of  her.  He  confessed  to  himself  that  he  was 
pretty  far  gone.  Belle  Charmion !  Belle  Charmion ! 
He  wanted  her  more  than  anything  on  earth !  But, 
meanwhile,  he  had  to  go  through  what  he  had 
planned  to  do.  A  wild-goose  chase,  no  doubt,  but 
he  would  follow  it  to  a  finish. 

He  finally  reached  the  entrance  of  the  St.  Paul 
204 


THE    ST.    PAUL    BUILDING         205 

building,  a  twenty-one  story  pile  of  granite  carved 
into  Romanesque  shapes,  and  had  turned  in  to  enter, 
when  he  saw  a  man  waiting  in  a  doorway  he  had 
just  passed.  Fenton  stopped  and  took  a  second  look 
at  him — a  muscular  man  in  a  brown  derby  hat,  and 
a  shepherd's  plaid  suit.  There  was  no  possible  doubt 
of  it;  it  was  the  same  man  he  had  first  seen  in  Schef- 
fel  Hall  with  the  outline  of  a  revolver  bulging  from 
his  hip  pocket — it  was  the  same  man  he  had  caught 
a  quick  glimpse  of  in  the  lobby  of  the  Hotel  Plaza. 
Here  was  another  puzzle !  Was  he  being  followed, 
and  if  so,  why?  A  mad  night,  indeed!  How  would 
it  end? 

He  went  in,  struggling  with  this  new  problem, 
looked  at  the  directory  table  on  the  wall,  and  found 
the  name  of  "Nailery  &  Co."  Opposite  was  the  num 
ber  of  the  firm's  office,  1376.  Only  one  of  the  three 
elevators  was  running.  In  the  car  a  negro  boy  was 
sitting  on  a  stool,  reading  "Middlemarch."  Fenton 
entered. 

"Thirteenth  floor,"  he  said,  and  the  boy  reluc 
tantly  closed  his  book,  slammed  the  door  and  pulled 
back  the  controller.  The  elevator  shot  up. 

"Round  on  the  left,"  said  the  boy,  as  Fenton 
emerged,  and  the  car  descended. 


206  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Fenton  walked  round  a  corner  of  the  corridor  and 
came  point-blank  to  a  door  painted  with  the  name  of 
"Nailery  &  Co.,  Mining  Brokers."  There  he 
knocked.  He  had  no  idea  what  he  should  do  when 
the  door  was  opened;  he  had  made  no  plan.  He 
would  make  up  his  mind  what  part  to  play  as  soon  as 
the  situation  was  found.  Meanwhile,  as  he  waited, 
he  thought  he  heard  a  hurried  sound  of  feet  .  .  . 
the  soft  click  of  a  closed  door.  ...  He  listened 
now,  more  carefully.  Still  there  was  no  answer.  He 
knocked  again,  louder.  All  was  silence.  Then,  angry 
at  the  delay,  wishing  to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis,  he 
turned  the  handle,  opened  the  door  and  walked  in. 

He  found  himself  in  a  small  office,  part  of  which 
was  shut  off  by  a  wooden  railing.  Behind  this  were 
a  couple  of  roll-top  desks,  a  letter  press,  a  type 
writer,  a  filing  cabinet,  and  other  ordinary  pieces  of 
cheap  office  furniture.  There  was  nobody  there, 
however,  and  so,  seeing  a  door  in  one  wall  marked 
"Private"  Fenton  went  through  the  gate,  strode  up 
to  it  and  knocked  with  determination. 

Still  no  answer.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment.  It 
was  carrying  things  rather  far  to  force  himself  in, 
this  way,  but  he  wanted  to  come  to  an  end  of  the 
adventure  as  soon  as  possible.  He  knocked  again, 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         207 

then,  impatient  at  the  silence,  boldly  opened  the 
door. 

He  saw  a  carpeted  room  with  a  single  roll-top 
desk  and  several  chairs.  Two  of  these  were  over 
turned  and,  between  them,  supine  upon  the  floor  was 
the  body  of  a  man,  lying  in  a  puddle  of  blood. 

Fenton  stood,  for  a  moment,  in  the  doorway,  fas 
cinated  by  the  aw  fulness  of  it — he  was  unable  to 
move.  It  seemed  unreal,  impossible,  like  a  wild 
dream.  His  first  impulse  was  to  stifle  his  exclama 
tion  of  alarm,  shut  the  door  and  make  his  escape  as 
quietly  and  quickly  as  possible.  Next,  despite  his 
sick  feeling  of  horror,  despite  a  dominant  fancy 
that  this  thing  was  not,  could  not  be  true,  came  the 
realization  that  he  should  go  to  the  rescue  of  the 
man,  and  give  him  aid,  if  it  was  not  already  too  late. 
He  forced  his  will  to  move  his  body,  stepped  for 
ward  and  knelt  beside  the  form.  One  look  into  those 
open,  staring  eyeballs  told  him  that  the  man  was 
dead. 

But,  as  he  looked  at  the  pale  face  more  deliber 
ately,  the  horror  gave  way  to  pathos.  The  dead  man 
was  wonderfully  beautiful,  picturesque,  even  poetic. 
By  his  crisp,  curling  hair,  the  finely  molded  fea 
tures,  the  width  of  his  forehead,  the  small  delicate 


208  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

mustache,  the  body  might  have  been  that  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe.  The  skin  was  as  fair  as  a  child's,  the  lips 
sensitively  parted,  showed  perfect  teeth ;  the  slender 
hands  were  like  a  woman's  gracefully  expressive  in 
their  relaxed  gesture.  All  this  would  have  pre 
vented  the  corpse  seeming  dreadful,  had  not  that 
oozing  red  spot  upon  the  shirt  front  told  a  tale  of 
murder.  Fenton  drew  down  the  lids  over  the  glassy 
eyeballs  with  scarcely  a  feeling  of  revulsion,  and 
then  slowly  arose,  still  held  by  the  potent  fascination 
of  death.  Then  his  eyes  wandered  about  the  room, 
and  stopped  at  a  gray  ooze-leather  bag  some  little 
distance  away  from  the  body.  He  walked  over  to  it 
and  picked  it  up.  He  pulled  it  open  and  received  a 
new  sensation. 

The  bag  was  crammed  with  jewels !  For  the  sec 
ond  time,  that  night  he  was  in  possession  of  the 
Brewster  collection.  That  fact  decided  him.  What 
ever  had  happened  in  this  dreadful  office,  it  was  his 
plain  duty  to  take  the  jewels,  and  deliver  them  as  he 
had  promised.  His  own  safety  and  theirs,  de 
manded  that  he  make  his  escape  without  delay — 
there  was  no  knowing  when  some  one  might  come 
— it  would  be  dangerous,  disastrous  to  be  discovered 
there  with  the  corpse. 


THE   ST.    PAUL   BUILDING        209 

Buttoning  the  bag  under  his  coat,  therefore,  he 
gave  one  swift  look  at  the  dead  man,  and  went  into 
the  outer  office.  Here  he  paused  a  moment  to  con 
sider.  It  was  improbable  that  any  other  exit  than 
the  front  door  of  the  building  would,  at  this  time  of 
night,  be  open.  The  safest  way,  if  indeed,  not  the 
only  way,  would  be  to  go  boldly  down  the  elevator, 
as  he  had  come  up.  He  must  take  his  chance,  at  any 
rate.  A  glimpse  into  a  mirror  showed  his  face  a 
deathly  white.  He  took  a  towel  from  the  washbowl 
and  rubbed  his  cheeks  violently,  till  the  color  had 
returned.  If  he  could  only  efface  the  horror  in  his 
heart  as  easily !  The  image  in  his  eyes  had  faded  so 
that,  now  the  door  was  closed,  he  could  hardly  be 
lieve  that  what  he  had  seen  was  true,  but  a  feeling 
of  faintness  warned  him  that  the  shock  had  gone 
deep.  He  waited  a  moment  for  his  weakness  to  pass, 
then  summoning  all  his  resolution,  left  the  office  and 
rang  the  elevator  bell. 

He  scarcely  dared  look  at  the  elevator  boy  as  the 
car  descended.  The  air  seemed  close  and  stifling. 
Without  a  glance  to  right  or  left  he  walked  unstead 
ily  out  the  great  doorway.  On  the  sidewalk  the  night 
breeze  revived  him,  and  he  started  to  walk  briskly 
north  along  Broadway.  At  each  step  his  courage 


210  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

and  his  relief  increased.  He  shook  off  his  obsession, 
pacified  his  conscience  with  the  thought  that  there 
was  nothing  he  could  haye  done,  and  turned  his 
thoughts  to  planning  his  next  move  in  the  curious 
game  of  chance  which  he  seemed  destined  to  play 
that  night. 

Here  he  was  again  with  the  Brewster  treasure, 
but  again  without  a  cent  in  his  pocket  and  now  still 
farther  away  than  ever  from  his  destination.  As  he 
walked  along  the  canyon  of  high  buildings  the 
clocks  rang  midnight.  How  was  he  to  get  up-town  ? 

He  had  not  gone  many  blocks  deliberating  this 
question,  when  he  heard  a  motor-car  coming  his 
way,  behind  him.  It  was  proceeding  slowly,  a  chauf 
feur  driving,  and  a  gentleman  muffled  up  in  a  pep 
per-and-salt  coat  in  the  tonneau.  He  was  a  little 
blonde  man  of  forty  with  a  patient,  resigned  look,  a 
man  with  a  pale,  careworn  face  and  a  lizard's  chin. 
His  mouth  was  slightly  open;  he  had  white  eye 
brows;  altogether,  his  face  betokened  no  great 
strength  of  will.  He  looked  at  Fenton  anxiously,  as 
he  passed,  and  turned  to  look  again  almost  as  if  he 
intended  to  speak,  but  didn't  quite  dare. 

Fenton  grasped  the  possibility  and  hailed  the  car. 
"Give  me  a  lift  up-town?"  he  asked. 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         211 

The  man  looked  him  up  and  down.  "How  far 
d'you  want  to  go  ?"  he  asked,  almost  whining. 

"Harlem,"  said  Fenton. 

For  some  moments  the  man  in  the  car  stared, 
without  speaking.  Fenton  grew  embarrassed;  he 
wondered  if  the  bag,  concealed  under  his  coat, 
showed  too  plainly.  But  the  man  finally  changed  his 
expression.  A  wan  smile  spread  over  his  face,  fol 
lowed  by  an  expression  of  timid  resolution. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said.  "If  you'll  do 
me  a  small  favor — it  won't  take  more  than  half  an 
hour — I'll  send  you  up  to  Harlem  in  this  car  after 
ward — anywhere  you  want  to  go." 

"What  is  the  favor?"  asked  Fenton. 

"Get  in  here,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

Fenton  opened  the  door  and  entered.  The  man 
who  had  invited  him  was  so  mild  that  there  could 
be  no  great  danger  to  the  jewels. 

"Go  on  home,  Karl,"  said  the  stranger,  "but  go 
slowly;  I  want  time  to  talk  to  this  gentleman." 
Then  he  turned  to  Fenton,  stared  at  him  anxiously 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  asked,  "Can  you  act  ?" 

"What  d'you  mean  ?  I'm  not  an  actor,  of  course !" 

"What  I  want  you  to  do,  is  to  impersonate  a  Hun 
garian  count  for  about  ten  minutes." 


212  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Fenton  gasped.  "Me?  A  count?"  In  spite  of  the 
tremor  he  was  still  in,  he  laughed. 

"Count  Capricorni,"  the  stranger  explained.  "I've 
got  to  produce  him  at  my  house  this  night,  and  oh,  if 
you  would  do  it!  I'll  fit  you  out  with  a  dress  suit 
and  a  red  ribbon,  and  introduce  you  to  a  few  guests. 
As  soon  as  that's  over,  you  can  be  taken  sick — 
cholera  infantum,  gout,  epilepsy  or  housemaid's 
knee — anything  you  like — and  then  you  can  go  up 
to  Harlem.  What  d'you  say?  Will  you,  please!" 

"Are  you  talking  in  your  sleep,  or  what?"  Fenton 
inquired. 

"I'm  trying  to  save  my  sister's  reputation,  that's 
all.  Perhaps,  if  you're  incredulous,  I'd  better  give 
you  a  few  details."  The  gentleman  sighed. 

"I  think  so,  too,"  Fenton  replied,  "this  seems  to 
be  my  night  in  Arabia,  and  I  might  as  well  do  it 
good.  I've  already  crowded  about  sixty  ordinary 
years'  experiences  into  six  hours  of  this  evening. 
Romance  seems  to  have  it  in  for  me  to-night.  Well, 
I  guess  I  can  stand  a  little  more  of  it.  What's  your 
line,  comedy,  tragedy,  farce,  musical  drama  or  bur 
lesque?" 

"Say,  you're  not  crazy,  are  you?"  The  stranger 
seemed  anxious. 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         213 

"No,  are  you?'' 

"Well,  sometimes  I  think  I  am.  I'm  a  fool,  any 
way.  Perhaps  I'd  better  tell  you  my  story  and  let 
you  decide." 

"All  right,"  said  Fenton,  leaning  back  in  the 
cushions. 

The  stranger  folded  his  arms,  scowling  ludi 
crously,  and  began:  "My  name  is  Stillwell  Mor 
gan." 

Fenton  sat  up  and  looked  at  him  eagerly.  "Not 
the  Stillwell  Morgan?  Not  the  nephew  of  James 
Pierpont?" 

"No,  not  that  one!"  the  stranger  replied,  sadly. 
"And  that's  the  whole  story !" 

"It's  a  mighty  short  one !"  Fenton  grunted. 

"Oh,  what  I  mean,"  said  Morgan,  "is  that  that 
very  natural  mistake  of  yours  is  what's  just  got  me 
into  trouble.  Everybody  makes  that  mistake.  And 
thereat  he  proceeded  to  tell  his  tale . 


COUNT    CAPRICORNI 

I  have  a  sister  named  Marguerite  Maganel  Mor 
gan.  She's  part  angel,  part  Vassar,  and  part  darned 
fool.  Being  her  only  brother,  of  course  I  adore  her 


FIND   THE   WOMAN 

on  six  days  of  the  week,  and  swear  at  her  on  the 
seventh.  If  you've  ever  had  that  kind  of  a  sister 
you  know.  Sisters  either  run  you,  or  you  run  them. 
I'm  not  ashamed  of  admitting  that  Marg  runs  me. 
It  saves  a  lot  of  trouble. 

Everybody  seems  to  think  I'm  rich,  because  my 
name  is  Morgan,  but  I'm  not.  Oh,  well,  I  make  a 
fair  income.  Real  estate.  Wait — I'll  give  you  my 
card.  We  live  a  plain,  self-respecting  life — up-town 
in  an  $85  apartment — that  is,  we  did,  till  a  month 
ago.  Ah,  well !  I  wish  we  lived  there  now !  We  had 
a  pretty  good  sized  bath-room  where  I  could  do  my 
pulley-weights,  and  we  had  a  view  of  the  Hudson — 
only  about  one  inch  of  it,  but  I  was  satisfied.  We 
had  a  Swedish  maid,  too,  and  on  Thursdays  Marg 
made  a  Welsh  rabbit,  we're  Welsh,  you  know,  and 
I  opened  the  beer.  I  never  drink  anything  stronger 
than  that  Doesn't  agree  with  me.  We  were  happy 
and  contented.  I  was,  anyway.  All  I  want  is  to  go 
to  a  good  musical  show  once  in  a  while,  and  wear 
slippers  when  I'm  home.  I  never  had  much  use  for 
style ;  I  hate  those  stiff  stand-up  collars,  for  instance. 
I  believe  in  comfort  and  bath  robes  and  things — you 
know,  good  American  habits  with  no  nonsense  about 
them.  Marg  goes  in  for  the  latest  thing.  But  then 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         215 

she's  ambitious.  So  she  made  me  a  velvet  smoking 
jacket — I  smoke  three  cigars  a  day,  one  after  each 
meal. 

'Well,  last  month  Marg  began  to  fret.  She  wasn't 
a  bit  interested  in  real  estate  or  musical  shows.  I'm 
reading  Gibbon's  "Decline  and  Fall"  this  winter, 
and  even  that  seemed  to  bore  her.  You  see,  she's 
higher  spirited  than  I  am,  somehow.  She  likes  a 
crowd.  So,  to  please  her,  I  said  we'd  spend  a  week 
at  Atlantic  City — at  a  real  swell  hotel.  She  bright 
ened  up  right  away.  I  was  glad  of  a  week  off,  too — 
it  would  give  me  a  chance  to  finish  up  the  "Decline 
and  Fall"  and  perhaps  I  could  start  in  on  "The  An 
atomy  of  Melancholy."  I've  never  had  time  to  read 
that. 

I  took  a  small  suite.  At  first  they  thought  we  were 
a  bridal  couple  and  I  nearly  died  of  mortification. 
But  it  was  worse  than  that  when  I  found  the  bell 
boys  thought  that  we  were  the  Stillwell  Morgans — 
the  rich  ones.  I  gave  only  dime  tips,  but  that  didn't 
seem  to  convince  them.  I  suppose  some  rich  people 
are  stingy  sometimes.  Of  course  I  told  the  clerk  all 
about  myself,  but  people  stared  at  us  so  I  dreaded 
to  go  into  the  dining-room. 

The  second  day  after  we  arrived  at  the  Bucking- 


2i6  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

ham  Hotel  I  met  a  nice  looking  fellow  in  the  bil 
liard-room,  while  I  was  watching  a  game  of  pool. 
I  don't  often  speak  to  strangers,  but  I  was  so  lone 
some  with  no  business  to  do,  that  I  offered  him  a 
ten  cent  cigar,  and  afterwards  we  played  a  game  of 
pool.  Oh,  not  the  regular  game — I  never  tried  that 
— it's  a  bit  hard  for  a  beginner — this  was  that  game 
where  you  roll  the  balls  from  one  corner.  I  beat  the 
stranger  two  games.  Nice  fellow,  I  thought.  Af 
fable,  you  know.  Interested  in  things.  I  didn't  care 
much  for  women,  neither  did  he.  We  got  on  beau 
tifully. 

After  he  left  I  asked  the  clerk  who  he  was,  and 
the  clerk  switched  round  the  visitor's  book  and 
pointed  to  a  name.  Well,  I  nearly  fainted.  "Count 
Capricorni  and  valet,  Bnda-Pesth."  There  I  had 
been  laughing  and  joking  with  a  real,  live  count ! 

When  I  told  Marg  about  it  she  got  awfully  ex 
cited —  sent  for  the  manicure  girl  and  asked  her  all 
about  the  count — then  she  interviewed  the  telephone 
girl  and  the  chambermaid.  Marg  has  a  way  of  get 
ting  right  at  things.  She's  resourceful,  by  Jove !  She 
told  me  I  must  invite  the  count  to  dinner,  but  I  said 
I'd  never  dare  in  the  world,  now  I  knew  who  he  was. 

I'd  never  seen  Marg  with  men  much.    I  usually 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         217 

go  into  my  room  and  read  when  they  come,  they're 
so  silly.  She  was  a  revelation  to  me  now,  the  way 
she  went  at  it.  She  got  into  my  lap  and  began  to 
fool  with  my  hair  and  teased  me  to  introduce  her 
to  the  count.  I  told  her  how  the  count  had  made  fun 
of  American  women,  and  I  guess  that  made  her 
mad.  When  Marg  gets  her  blood  up,  she's  great. 
She  said  that  I'd  simply  have  to  have  him  to  dinner. 
I  tried  to  get  out  of  it,  and  then  she  began  to  cry. 
What  can  you  do  when  a  woman  cries  ?  I  agreed  to 
let  her  have  her  own  way. 

Not  that  I  blamed  Marg  much.  If  you'd  seen  the 
count  you'd  have  been  impressed.  Any  one  would. 
He  looked  just  like  a  count — sort  of  distinguished 
looking,  poetical  kind  of  chap,  he  was.  Wide  fore 
head,  crisp  black  curly  hair,  and  a  little  bit  of  a 
mustache — say,  I'll  tell  you!  He  looked  for  all 
the  world  like  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  at  twenty-five. 
What's  the  matter?  He  did,  really!  Slender  hands, 
like  a  woman's  and  he  used  them  in  a  foreign  sort 
of  way  when  he  talked.  Then  he  wore  a  black  soft 
tie  with  his  evening  dress,  and  a  broad  ribbon  on 
his  glasses,  and  some  kind  of  a  little  red  button  in 
his  button  hole.  I  liked  him  when  I  got  better  ac 
quainted.  I  don't  mind  admitting  it,  I  really  did. 


2i8  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Marg  had  only  twenty-four  hours  to  get  up  a  cos 
tume.  She  sent  six  or  seven  telegrams  to  Faustine, 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  had  a  hair  dresser  from 
Philadelphia.  I  had  to  buy  a  lot  of  orchids,  and  we 
got  mother's  pearls  out  of  the  safe  deposit.  It  cost 
about  four  hundred  dollars  in  all,  but  Marg  was 
happy.  The  only  thing  was  I  didn't  have  a  dress 
suit.  Marg  wanted  me  to  hire  one  of  a  waiter,  but 
I  drew  the  line.  I  can  be  firm  when  I  want  to!  I 
hate  those  hard  shirts. 

The  count  came  up  to  our  sitting-room  and  Marg 
came  in  smelling  of  some  kind  of  cologne  she  bought 
for  four  dollars  a  bottle.  That  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  had  her  hand  kissed,  in  the  European 
fashion — except  in  private  theatricals,  of  course — 
but  it  didn't  embarrass  her  one  bit.  She  acted  just 
as  if  they  did  it  to  her  every  day.  Ain't  women  won 
derful?  We  went  down  to  dinner,  with  me  behind, 
and  when  we  walked  into  the  dining-room  there  was 
a  buzz  that  you  could  have  heard  to  the  board-walk. 
You  see,  every  girl  in  the  hotel  had  been  hot  after 
the  count  for  a  week,  and  he  never  had  paid  any  at 
tention  to  any  of  them.  I  was  proud  of  Marg,  then. 
Every  woman  there  was  hating  her  like  mischief; 
and  you  know  how  that  improves  a  woman's  looks 


THE   ST.    PAUL   BUILDING        219 

— the  one  they  hate,  I  mean.  The  count  was  lan 
guid  and  aristocratic  and  talked  to  Marg  all  the 
time.  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  say  much.  Marg 
was  awfully  animated,  though. 

When  we  went  up-stairs  somehow  I  felt  in  the 
way,  so  I  took  my  "Decline  and  Fall"  and  went  into 
my  room  to  read.  I  heard  them  laughing  afterward, 
for  an  hour  an  a  half.  Then,  when  he  left,  Marg 
came  in  to  see  me.  She  told  me  she  was  dead  in  love 
with  Count  Capricorni,  and  what  were  we  going  to 
do?  If  he  ever  discovered  we  weren't  the  Still  well 
Morgans  she  was  afraid  he'd  cut  us,  and  she'd  pine 
away  and  die. 

That  was  how  the  trouble  began.  You  see,  Marg 
wanted  to  entertain  him  in  New  York,  but  how 
could  we  invite  him  to  our  little  flat  ?  He'd  scorn  it. 
Marg  said  we'd  have  to  move,  and  move  quick. 
When  Marg  decides  on  a  thing  I  give  up  the  fight. 

Just  then  Aunt  Jane  died,  and  we  knew  that  she'd 
surely  leave  us  some  money.  Marg  figured  on  a 
hundred  thousand  or  so,  but  I  doubted  it.  On  the 
strength  of  it,  however,  Marg  began  to  make  her 
plans.  She  went  up  to  the  city  next  day  and  rented 
a  suite  at  Wycherley  Court. 

Ever  seen  Wycherley  Court?    It's  on  Riverside 


220  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Drive — a  French  Renaissance  pile,  Marg  calls  it — 
with  an  entrance  hall  that  looks  as  if  it  was  carved 
out  of  different  kinds  of  colored  soaps.  There  is  a 
lot  of  plush  and  hall  boys  and  bronze  tables  and 
fountains  and  things  when  you  go  in,  and  a  mar 
quise  in  front.  You  know  the  kind.  Our  suite  cost 
$15,000  a  year.  Marg  spent  a  day  in  those  antique 
furniture  dens  on  Fourth  Avenue,  and  got  in  a  lot 
of  Sheraton  stuff  and  Turkish  rugs  to  take  the 
nouveau  riche  look  off. 

I  didn't  mind  the  expense  so  much,  although  I 
was  sailing  pretty  close  to  the  wind  by  this  time.  It 
was  the  style  we  had  put  on  that  I  hated.  Of  course, 
it  wouldn't  do  for  the  Count  Capricorni  to  find  us 
living  the  bourgeois  way  we  always  had,  so  she  got 
a  lot  of  gowns — I  thought  they  were  awfully  low- 
necked — and  she  made  me  get  into  a  dress  suit  when 
the  clock  struck  six  every  night,  whether  we  had 
company  or  not.  I  tried  to  learn  to  drink  Burgundy 
— but  it's  no  use — I  hate  it ! 

Then  she  got  a  butler.  Ever  tried  to  act  natural 
with  an  English  butler  looking  at  you?  You  can't 
do  it,  unless  you're  a  woman.  Women  love  it — it 
really  seems  to  stiffen  'em  up — but  I  always  felt 
shriveled  when  he  was  in  the  room. 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         221 

The  count  didn't  like  ordinary  American  cooking, 
so  Marg  got  a  chef  and  I  never  had  any  appetite 
after  that.  That  Swedish  girl  we  used  to  have  could 
made  grand  griddle  cakes — but  that  was  all  over! 
We  only  had  stewed-up  stuff  in  little  casseroles,  and 
everything  tasted  of  onions.  Marg  said  she  loved 
his  cooking,  but  I  noticed  she  didn't  eat  much.  But 
then,  she  was  in  love,  I  admit. 

The  count  came  several  times  a  week.  He  seemed 
to  like  the  place,  though  I  thought  by  the  way  he 
talked  it  was  nothing  compared  to  his  castles  in 
Hungary.  He  used  to  sit  and  smoke  cigarettes  out 
of  a  mouth-piece  six  inches  long  and  tell  us  about 
his  family.  He  told  us  that  he  was  going  to  come 
into  a  whole  lot  of  money  when  he  married.  He 
showed  us  a  little  miniature  of  his  mother  and  an 
other  of  a  young  countess  his  mother  was  trying  to 
make  him  marry.  That  picture  got  Marg  furious; 
she  used  to  go  and  order  a  new  hat  and  two  or  three 
new  gowns  after  every  time  he  showed  it  to  her. 

Well,  at  the  pace  we  were  going,  I  didn't  see  how 
we  could  last.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  pay  running 
expenses,  and  I  had  to  work  down  town  almost 
every  night  figuring  on  new  deals  to  put  us  through. 
What  with  wages  and  tips  and  things  at  Wycherley 


222  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Court,  I  was  at  my  wit's  end.  Marg  said  it  didn't 
matter  if  she  only  married  the  count;  because  then 
we'd  all  have  plenty  of  money.  But  all  the  same  it 
worried  me. 

Of  course  Marg  talked  to  folks  about  her  count, 
and  naturally  all  our  friends  got  pretty  curious  to 
see  him.  She  gave  several  teas,  but  somehow  he 
never  managed  to  come  to  any  of  them.  The  first 
time  he  sent  word  he  was  ill,  the  second  he  had  to  go 
out  of  town,  the  third  time  he  promised  to  come  but 
didn't — and  so  it  went.  Her  girl  friends  began  to 
laugh  at  her,  and  then  they  got  nasty.  They  said 
she  was  awfully  stingy  with  her  old  count,  prob 
ably  afraid  that  some  of  them  would  catch  him. 
Some  of  them  even  said  they  didn't  believe  she  had 
any  count  at  all.  I  was  kept  busy  explaining  about 
him,  and  apologizing  and  everything.  Marg  felt 
dreadfully  upset  about  it. 

Well,  one  night  she  came  into  my  room  half  cry 
ing  and  half  laughing,  and  said  that  the  count  had 
proposed  to  her  and  she  was  going  to  marry  him  and 
be  a  countess  and  wear  a  coronet  and  live  in  a  ruined 
castle  just  like  in  a  story  book.  Of  course,  then,  I 
knew  I  was  in  for  it.  Her  picture  would  be  in  the 
Sunday  papers,  and  perhaps  mine,  and  there'd  be 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         223 

reporters  and  all  sorts  of  things.  It  made  me  groan 
to  think  of  it.  Marg  just  loved  it. 

She  decided  that  she'd  have  to  give  a  big  recep 
tion  to  announce  the  engagement  and  introduce  the 
count.  That  would  stop  all  gossip,  and  people  would 
see  that  we  were  just  as  good  as  the  Vanderbilts  and 
Goulds  and  Astors,  and  wasn't  I  proud  of  my  little 
sister  ?  Well,  I  was  proud  enough  of  her,  but  I  shud 
dered  when  I  thought  of  the  expense  and  the  pub- 
licity  and  the  style  we'd  have  to  put  on.  I  only 
hoped  that  after  it  was  all  over,  I  could  get  a  big 
sunny  room  somewhere  near  Forty-second  Street, 
and  wear  my  bath-robe  and  slippers  every  evening 
I  didn't  go  to  a  show. 

So  I  went  in  for  it.  I  sold  my  mother's  pearls 
and  got  an  automobile  because  the  count  said  trol 
ley  cars  and  subways  were  vulgar.  I  mortgaged  a 
little  farm  in  Connecticut  that  had  belonged  to  the 
family  for  a  hundred  years  and  Marg  hired  a  foot 
man  and  a  lady's  maid  and  a  valet  for  me.  I  used 
to  send  him  on  errands  all  the  time  to  get  rid  of  him, 
but  her  maid  worked  hard.  The  count  began  to  call 
me  Stillwell  and  said  Americans  weren't  so  bad 
after  you  knew  them  well.  He  also  began  to  talk 
about  my  investing  in  Hungarian  mines,  and  I  con- 


224  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

sidered  it  favorably  until  Aunt  Jane's  will  was  filed 
for  probate.  Marg  and  I  were  left  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  apiece,  which  I  spent  for  garage  ex 
penses,  and  a  portrait  of  her  third  husband,  which 
Marg  insisted  on  hanging  up  in  the  dining-room.  It 
was  our  ancestral  portrait.  The  count  said  he  had 
'em  by  dozens  in  his  castles 

We  set  to-day  for  the  reception,  and  the  count 
promised  on  his  honor  he'd  be  there  on  time  to  meet 
all  our  friends.  We  invited  about  three  hundred  peo 
ple,  but  all  the  week  folks  have  been  telephoning  to 
Marg  to  ask  couldn't  they  bring  a  friend  or  two,  so 
that  this  afternoon,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  I  tele 
phoned  the  caterer  to  provide  for  seven  hundred 
guests.  Marg  insisted  on  my  hiring  an  empty  suite 
below  us  for  dancing,  and  got  an  orchestra  and  a 
whole  lot  of  gilt  chairs.  I  figured  it  out  to-day  that 
I  was  about  $37,000  in  a  hole  up  to  date.  The  count 
had  come  high,  but  Marg  had  to  have  him,  and  so 
long  as  she  was  happy  and  I  could  keep  out  of  jail 
I  didn't  care.  Knowing  that  it  was  a  love  match, 
and  the  count  wasn't  after  Marg's  money,  it  didn't 
matter.  I  could  stand  it. 

That's  the  way  it  stood  this  morning,  when  I  went 


THE    ST.    PAUL   BUILDING         225 

down  town  to  my  grind.  Florists  all  over  the  house, 
men  nailing  down  canvas  on  the  floors,  footmen  in 
everybody's  way,  a  lot  of  extra  maids  and  servants 
fussing  about,  and  the  caterers  stewing  things  in  the 
kitchen.  I  was  glad  to  clear  out  and  get  down  to  my 
office  where  I  could  be  quiet.  Worked  like  a  China 
man  all  day,  and  tried  to  forget  we  were  marrying 
into  the  nobility. 

I  was  so  nervous  and  excited,  though,  that  I 
couldn't  stand  eating  lunch  in  a  restaurant  where  I 
would  be  likely  to  meet  any  of  my  friends,  so  I 
dropped  into  one  of  those  little  cheap  quick  lunch 
ham-and-egg  places  under  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  I 
ordered  some  weak  tea  and  milk  toast,  and  was  try 
ing  to  read  the  paper  when  I  heard  a  voice  that  sim 
ply  paralyzed  me.  It  was  behind  a  flimsy  wooden 
partition — in  the  kitchen — and  it  was  yelling  "draw 
one !"  or  something  like  that.  Perhaps  it  was  "ham 
and  over!" 

Then  a  waiter  in  a  dirty  duck  suit  came  out  of 
the  doorway,  with  about  sixteen  dishes  balanced 
along  his  arm,  and  an  apron  on.  It  was  the  Count 
Capricorni.  Yes,  that's  right!  That  miserable 
waiter  was  the  man  that  about  eighteen  servants  and 


226  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

six  hundred  guests  were  preparing  for  up  at  Wych- 
erley  Court.    And  I  had  spent  something  like  $37,- 

000  so  that  he  wouldn't  be  ashamed  of  Marguerite ! 

Morgan  stopped  and  smiled  sadly.  "I  don't  think 
he  saw  me  at  all.  He  turned  to  put  some  things  on 
a  table,  and  I  bolted  without  waiting  for  my  lunch. 
You  see  how  I'm  fixed,  don't  you?  I  thought  that 
if  he  did  show  up  to-night,  so  that  we  would  get  the 
reception  over  with,  I  coul'd  get  rid  of  him  to-mor 
row,  forever.  But  he  didn't  appear." 

Fenton  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered,  "and 

1  don't  think  you'll  ever  see  him  again.  I  guess  he's 
done  for,  poor  fellow." 

Morgan  construed  the  remark  according  to  his 
own  lights,  probably  thinking  that  the  count  had 
suspected  that  his  real  identity  had  been  discovered. 
Fenton  did  not  explain;  he  dared  not  say  that  he 
was  virtually  sure  that  the  bogus  Count  Capricorni 
lay  dead  in  an  office  on  the  thirteenth  story  of  the 
St.  Paul  building.  He  wanted  to  forget  what  he  had 
seen — at  least  until  he  had  performed  his  duty.  The 
reverie  it  threw  him  into  was  broken  by  Morgan. 
"You  see  what  I  was  up  against." 
"Must  have  been  embarrassing,"  said  Fenton. 


THE   ST.    PAUL   BUILDING        227 

"Embarrassing?  Well,  I  guess!  When  eleven 
o'clock  came,  and  he  hadn't  come,  I  told  Marg  all 
about  it,  and  she  near  went  crazy.  What  are  we  go 
ing  to  do?'  she  said — as  if  I  knew!  There  we  were 
again  without  the  guest  of  honor.  Hamlet,  with  the 
prince  left  out.  The  place  was  beginning  to  fill  up 
and  everybody  was  asking  questions." 

"Well,  what  did  you  do  ?"  said  Fenton,  beginning 
to  be  amused. 

"Marg  was  splendid;  she  took  right  hold  of  it. 
She  told  me  that  I'd  simply  got  to  get  somebody  to 
impersonate  the  count,  or  she  would  be  disgraced 
forever,  and  meanwhile  she'd  tell  everybody  that  the 
count  had  been  delayed  in  Washington,  and  would 
arrive  at  midnight.  That  would  give  me  an  hour  to 
work  it  out.  I  confess  I  was  frightened  to  death.  I 
didn't  like  to  deceive  people,  but  what  else  could  I 
do?  Marg  would  be  insane  if  I  didn't  save  her  repu 
tation. 

"Well,  the  only  person  I  could  think  of  was  Har 
old  Ringrose,  a  college  mate  of  mine.  We  often 
played  bezique  together.  He's  a  manufacturing 
chemist,  down  on  Vesey  Street.  I  rung  up  his  house, 
but  they  said  he  was  down  town.  I  tried  his  office ; 
no  answer.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  go 


228  FIND    THE   WOMAN 

down  there  and  find  him,  and  try  to  get  him  to  play 
the  part.  I  thought  I  could  play  the  old  friendship 
and  family  honor  strong  enough  to  induce  him.  He 
knows  hardly  anybody,  and  no  one  would  ever  sus 
pect  him.  So  I  drove  down  there.  There  was  a  light 
in  the  sixth  story  window,  but  I  couldn't  get  any 
answer  to  the  bell ;  and  after  I'd  shouted  as  loud  as 
I  dared,  a  policeman  told  me  to  move  on.  So  I  drove 
back,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  till  I  met  you." 

Morgan  suddenly  turned  and  grasped  Fenton's 
arm  with  both  his  hands.  "Do  this  for  me,  for 
Heaven's  sake,"  he  exclaimed,  and  weakly  burst  into 
tears.  "God  knows  I  never  wanted  all  this  fluff  and 
feathers,"  he  sobbed.  "I'm  a  simple  man  with  sim 
ple  ways.  I  don't  like  fashion  and  footmen  and 
things — I  want  to  be  let  alone — only,  Mar- 
guer — ite !" 

"Oh,  brace  up,  old  man,"  Fenton  cried  heartily. 
"I'll  save  your  face  for  you.  Depend  on  me.  It'll  be 
a  good  joke  on  all  these  snobs.  Is  everything 
ready?" 

"Yes.  Here,  we're  aimost  home,  now.  Home! 
God,  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  Wycherley  Court." 


X 

WYCHERLEY   COURT 

IN  WHICH  JOHN  FENTON  ASSISTS  AT  A  SOCIAL  FUNC 
TION  IN  HIGH  LIFE,  WEARS  EVENING  DRESS  FOR 
THE  FIRST  TIME,  AND  AGAIN  SEES  BELLE 
CHARMION 

THEY  had  been  going  up  Riverside  Drive,  and, 
as  Morgan  spoke,  they  approached  a  tall  mar 
ble  apartment  house  from  which  an  awning 
stretched,  across  the  sidewalk,  to  the  curb.  Here  a 
line  of  carriages  and  automobiles  were  in  line  wait 
ing  to  discharge  their  passengers. 

Morgan  leaned  forward  and  tapped  his  chauffeur 
on  the  shoulder.  "Round  to  the  side  entrance!"  he 
commanded. 

Here  he  and  Fenton  got  out,  and  made  their  way 
rapidly  in,  and  along  a  corridor  to  the  back  stairs. 
They  climbed  ten  stories  and  arrived  panting  at  the 
back  door  of  the  Morgan  apartment,  were  let  in  by 
a  staring  servant,  and  conducted  rapidly  along  the 
hall.  As  they  passed,  Fenton  heard  the  continuous 

229 


230  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

sound  of  gabble — the  intermingled  talk  and  laugh 
ter  of  many  guests,  inarticulate,  confused,  an  un 
steady  murmur  of  voices.  It  sounded  to  him  as  if  it 
might  come  from  some  monstrous,  horrid  beast  with 
innumerable  mouths.  Servants  of  all  kinds  skeltered 
past  him  as  he  made  his  way — waiters  loaded  with 
dishes,  maids  with  ladies'  wraps,  men  servants,  gos 
siping,  loafing,  gaping.  A  high,  clear  laugh  rose  over 
all  this  subdued  tumult. 

"Marg's  holding  the  fort!"  said  Morgan,  admir 
ingly,  and  led  the  way  in  to  his  own  chamber. 
"Now,  for  heaven's  sake,  hurry !"  he  exclaimed. 

Fenton  had  but  time  to  see  a  wide  white  bed  laid 
out  with  a  complete  outfit,  evening  dress  clothes, 
shirt,  tie — when  two  man-servants  fell  upon  him  and 
tore  off  his  coat,  vest  and  trousers  with  the  fury  of 
maniacs.  As  they  held  the  dress  trousers  for  him, 
a  young  lady  put  her  head  through  the  door,  ex 
citedly. 

"Has  he  come  ?"  she  cried.  And  then,  "Oh,  there 
you  are !  Thank  goodness !" 

Fenton  took  a  leap  into  the  black  trousers  and 
turned  his  back  just  as  she  burst  into  the  room. 

"Is  he  ready?"  she  cried,  eagerly.  "For  heaven's 
sake  hurry,  you  idiots !  I  can't  wait  a  minute  longer. 


For  heaven's  sake,  hurry  !  " 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  231 

Stillwell,  put  on  his  shoes,  quick!  Here,  you  crazy 
loon,  you've  got  that  collar  upside  down!  For 
heaven's  sake,  let  me  do  it,  if  you're  all  half-wit 
ted!"  And  Fenton  found  himself  suddenly  con 
fronted  by  a  tall,  pretty,  blue-eyed  girl  with  flushed 
cheeks,  all  in  white,  with  three  ostrich  feathers  nod 
ding  in  her  hair. 

"Hold  'your  head  still!"  she  commanded.  "I 
can't  do  anything  if  you  move  that  way!  Here, 
you,  put  his  gloves  on  quick!"  A  man  attacked 
each  hand.  Stillwell  Morgan  still  fussed  at  the 
bows  of  Fenton's  shoes.  Marguerite  Maganel  Mor 
gan,  in  white  gloves,  with  orchids  on  her  breast, 
her  flushed  face  within  an  inch  of  his,  worked  over 
Fenton  like  a  window  dresser  with  a  wax  figure. 
Her  sweet  breath  was  in  his  face,  her  curls  brushed 
his  cheeks  as  she  patted  and  pulled  at  his  tie.  He 
saw  her  pretty  mouth  working  with  nervousness. 
Then  she  stepped  back  and  looked  at  him. 

"Mercy!"  she  shrieked,  "this  isn't  Mr.  Ringrose! 
Who  is  it?"  She  stared  at  him  with  big  eyes,  and 
turned  scarlet. 

"I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  being  Count  Capri- 
corni,"  said  Fenton,  bowing  low. 

A  maid  tapped  at  the  door,  and  entered  half  way. 


232  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

"Mrs.  Grahamson-Davis  wants  to  see  you,  Miss 
Morgan,"  she  said.  "She  has  to  go  home.  Says 
she  can't  wait  any  longer." 

Miss  Morgan  grabbed  Fenton  by  one  arm. 
"Come!"  she  commanded,  savagely,  "I  don't  care 
who  you  are — you'll  do!  If  I  can  only  satisfy  that 
old  Mrs.  Grahamson-Davis,  I'm  safe!"  and  she 
dragged  him  out  of  the  room  into  the  hall.  Here 
he  asserted  himself,  offered  his  other  arm,  tossed 
his  head  erect,  and  stepped  off  with  her.  If  he  were 
to  play  a  part  he  decided  it  would  be  that  of  a  man, 
not  a  puppet.  Miss  Morgan  looked  up  at  him  with 
admiration. 

"It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come!"  she 
breathed. 

"It's  about  time  for  something  like  that  to  be 
said,"  he  replied,  haughtily.  "You  treat  me  right, 
or  I'll  spoil  the  show." 

"Oh,  I'll  do  anything — anything!"  she  exclaimed, 
then,  dropping  her  voice  she  added,  "I  wish  you 
were  the  Count  Capricorni !" 

With  this  exquisite  compliment  pleasantly  ring 
ing  in  his  ears,  he  navigated  his  way  through  star 
ing,  whispering  groups  of  guests  and  entered  the 
reception  room.  A  buzz  of  comments  greeted  them. 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  233 

Everybody  stared;  they  were  immediately  sur 
rounded,  innumerable  introductions  began. 

Fenton,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  in  evening 
dress,  with  a  foolish  wild  longing  that  Belle  Char- 
mion  might  see  him,  played  his  part  like  a  veteran. 
As  one  eager,  curious  person  after  another  was  pre 
sented,  he  bowed,  shook  hands,  uttered  a  pleasantry, 
laughed  and  gestured  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as 
if  he  had  been  the  petted  hero  of  society  all  his  life. 

Of  all  the  remarkable  situations  he  had  found 
himself  in  that  mad  night,  this  was  perhaps  the 
most  dangerous.  The  very  peril  of  it,  however,  in 
spired  him.  The  gayety  of  the  scene  went  to  his 
head  like  a  cocktail;  his  mind  worked  like  an  ex 
quisitely  adjusted  high-speed  machine.  The  crowd, 
elaborately  dressed,  wove  about  him,  smiling,  pretty 
women  and  attentive  men,  the  lights  of  electroliers 
and  cut  glass  and  precious  stones  flashed  in  his 
eyes,  the  perfume  of  frangipanni  and  peau  d'Es- 
pagne  mingled  with  the  wafted  odors,  from  the 
dining]  room,  of  oysters  and  terrapin.  The  clink 
of  glasses  tinkled  with  laughter-laden  voices.  The 
music  of  an  orchestra  sobbed  and  swelled,  with  the 
voices  of  heart-broken  strings  and  twittered  with 
love-lorn  wood  instruments. 


234  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

It  all  stimulated  his  imagination  to  the  boiling 
point.  He  talked  as  he  had  never  talked  before — 
of  things  he  knew  nothing  of,  things  he  didn't  be 
lieve,  things  as  far  outside  of  his  life  as  Chimbo- 
raza  or  Cambodia.  It  was  the  more  easy  when  he 
perceived  that  nobody  listened — every  one  was  hys 
terical,  hypnotized,  eager  to  add  his  or  her  nonsense 
to  the  general  babel.  He  talked  wildly  of  bridge 
and  golf,  of  plays  he  had  never  seen,  of  countries 
he  had  never  visited.  But  he  might  as  well  have 
said  anything — that  he  was  dead  and  buried — that 
he  had  forgotten  to  wear  a  shirt,  that  his  mother 
had  whiskers.  No  one  would  have  noticed.  He 
gossiped  of  kings  and  princesses,  he  mentioned  at 
least  seven  new  wonders  of  the  world.  The  ladies 
giggled,  the  men  said  "Really!"  and  no  one  knefw 
but  that  he  had  been  speaking  commonplaces. 

"You're  doing  fine — fine!"  Miss  Morgan  whis 
pered  to  him  at  the  first  respite.  "I'm  proud  of 
you !"  She  looked  up  under  her  lashes  coquettishly, 
"What  a  pity  we're  not  really  engaged !  The  poor 
Count!" 

At  that  there  came  to  him,  suddenly,  a  flash  of 
remembrance  of  the  adventurer,  dead  in  the  St. 
Paul  building.  The  memory  swept  like  a  chill  wind 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  235 

over  his  soul — and  awakened  him  to  his  almost  for 
gotten  duty.  The  jewels!  He  had  forgotten  all 
about  them.  At  this  minute  he  should  be  speeding 
up-town  to  Harlem,  to  keep  his  promise.  What 
right  had  he  here,  in  this  absurd  disguise!  The 
charm  of  the  adventure  had  gone  to  his  head.  Now 
he  must  be  about  his  business  without  delay. 

Just  as  he  was  casting  about  for  a  pretext  to  go, 
his  ears  caught  the  sound  of  a  name — "Miss  Belle 
Charmion,"  and  he  turned,  shocked  and  trembling, 
to  see  before  him  the  girl  of  his  dreams.  There 
she  was,  olive  skin  and  soft  hazel  eyes,  whimsical 
mouth — the  pretty,  slender  girl  he  had  already 
seen  twice  that  evening.  She  was  staring  at  him, 
and  her  brows  were  knitted. 

"Haven't  we — met  before?"  she  asked,  hesitat 
ingly,  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

What  could  he  say?  Surely  he  could  not  dis 
claim  her  acquaintance,  neither  could  he  stultify  his 
hostess.  For  a  moment  everything  seemed  to  go 
black  in  front  of  him,  then  that  very  feeling  sug 
gested  an  excuse  for  not  answering.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  heart  and  dropped  upon  a  chair. 

"I  feel  faint!"  he  murmured.  "Will  you  pardon 
me,  Miss  Morgan,  if  I — " 


236  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"You'd  better  go  into  Still's  room  for  a  mo 
ment,"  she  suggested.  She  beckoned  to  her  brother, 
who  came  crowding  up.  "Take  him  out,  he's  faint 
ing!"  she  commanded.  "This  crush  is  too  much  for 
him — you  know  he  hasn't  recovered  from  that  at 
tack  of  yesterday,  yet." 

Fenton  staggered  out  on  Morgan's  arm,  and,  as 
the  crowd  made  way  for  him,  he  saw  Miss  Char- 
mion's  eyes  still  upon  him,  with  a  puzzled,  question 
ing  expression.  He  felt  base  and  mean. 

"I  must  get  out  of  here  right  away!"  he  ex 
claimed,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone  in  Morgan's 
chamber.  "I've  spent  too  much  time  already — I've 
neglected  a  terribly  important  errand." 

"You've  saved  my  life,  old  man,"  said  Stillwell 
Morgan,  effusively.  "I  don't  know  what  we  ever 
would  have  done.  You've  made  an  awful  hit.  Peo 
ple  are  crazy  about  you !  Why,  Marguerite  says — " 

"Damn  Marguerite!  Where's  that  bag  I 
brought?"  Fenton  looked  eagerly  about  the  room. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,  but  I'd  be  glad  to 
have  you  consider  me  your  friend,  and  if  I  can  do — " 

"Find  that  bag!"  Fenton  exclaimed  excitedly. 
"Lord,  man,  if  you  knew  what  was  in  it — "  He 
groped  under  the  bed. 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  237 

"Why,  isn't  it  here?  Say,  I'll  call  one  of  the 
men.'*  Morgan  went  to  the  door. 

"If  that  isn't  found  I'm  ruined!"  cried  Fenton. 
"Haven't  you  any  detectives  here?" 

Morgan's  valet  came  running  up.  "A  bag,  sir? 
What  kind  of  a  bag?" 

*'A  soft  bag — gray  ooze-leather!  Hurry — find 
it  right  away.  What  did  you  do  with  it  ?  By  heav 
ens,  I'll  send  for  the  police!" 

"Perhaps  it  was  taken  into  the  ladies'  room,  sir; 
I'll  see!" 

While  he  left  to  inquire,  Fenton  fumed.  Morgan 
fussed  about,  anxious  and  embarrassed.  "Was  it 
really  valuable?"  he  asked,  weakly. 

Fenton  did  not  answer,  but  opened  drawers, 
looked  in  closets,  overturned  piles  of  overcoats, 
looked  in  hats,  in  frantic  haste.  Every  instant  he 
grew  more  excited.  At  last,  as  he  stood,  flushed 
and  tumbled,  trying  to  think  what  to  do — whether 
to  call  for  the  police,  ask  that  everyone  be  searched, 
or  appeal  to  Miss  Morgan — the  valet  returned  with 
the  lost  bag.  Fenton  grabbed  it  from  him,  and 
tremblingly  looked  inside.  A  blaze  of  color  flashed 
up  from  its  dark  interior. 

"Miss  Charmion  had  it,  sir,"  the  valet  explained. 


238  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"They  thought,  of  course,  it  belonged  to  one  of  the 
ladies,  and  she  was  there  getting  ready  to  go  home." 

"Did  she  look  into  it?"  Fenton  demanded  with 
anxiety. 

"Oh,  no  sir,  she  just  took  it,  looked  at  it,  and 
said  it  wasn't  hers.  She  was  too  worried  to  pay 
much  attention.  Some  one  had  just  telephoned  to 
her,  and  she  was  rather  upset  over  it,  sir." 

Fenton  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  turned  to 
Morgan.  "Is  your  automobile  ready  ?"  he  asked. 

The  valet  interposed.     "Ready  at  the  door,  sir." 

"I've  got  to  get  away  in  a  hurry,  then." 

Morgan  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "If  you  don't 
wish  to  wait  to  change  your  clothes,  Mr. — Mr. — " 

"Fenton.    John  Fenton." 

"Mr.  Fenton,  you  can  send  back  the  suit  you  have 
on  when  you  find  it  convenient.  It's  no  importance, 
really,  and  I'll  give  you  a  silk  hat  and  an  over 
coat—" 

Even  in  the  whirl  of  his  excited  haste,  even  with 
the  memory  of  the  dead  man  always  in  the  back  of 
his  mind,  even  with  the  responsibility  of  the  jewels 
keeping  him  in  a  fever  of  unrest,  even  with  the 
thrill  of  Belle  Charmion's  near  presence  disturbing 
him,  the  offer  tingled  a  pleasant  fancy.  He  had 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  239 

never  worn  a  silk  hat  in  his  life — how  he  had 
longed  to! — now,  in  evening  clothes,  it  would  be  a 
satisfaction  to  go  forth,  robed  as  a  gentleman,  clad, 
cap-a-pie  in  formal  garb!  He  grinned,  blushingly 
accepted  the  hat,  and  gazed  at  it.  He  smoothed  the 
nap  against  his  sleeve.  Perhaps  he  might  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Belle  Charmion  again — but  no,  how  dis 
appointing!  He  had,  of  course,  to  exit  by  way  of 
the  servants'  staircase.  It  was  too  bad. 

In  two  minutes  he  had  slipped  out  and  was  run 
ning  down-stairs  with  Morgan's  valet.  The  motor 
car  was  not  at  the  side  entrance;  they  went  round 
to  the  front  of  the  building  in  search  of  it.  They 
found  it,  drawn  up  in  the  line  of  waiting  vehicles, 
and  Fenton  was  just  about  to  enter  when,  turning, 
he  saw  Belle  Charmion  coming  out  under  the  awn 
ing.  He  paused  in  surprise;  she  looked  eagerly  to 
right  and  left.  Catching  sight  of  him,  she  smiled 
faintly,  and  walked  rapidly  up. 

"Could  you  take  me  up-town?"  she  asked.  "I've 
ordered  a  taxicab,  but  it  hasn't  come,  and  I'm  in  a 
great  hurry.  I've  had  an  important  message — a 
relative  is  dangerously  ill — I  must  get  up  there  im 
mediately.  I'm  awfully  worried  about  it!" 

"Why,  I  shall  be  delighted!"  said  Fenton.     He 


240  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

was  trembling  in  every  limb.  The  idea  of  being 
alone  with  her  at  last  sent  him  into  a  fever  of  ex 
citement.  He  turned  to  lead  the  way.  "Right  over 
here,"  he  said. 

As  he  turned  suddenly  the  bag  he  was  holding  in 
one  hand  struck  sharply  against  one  of  the  iron 
stanchions  of  the  awning.  It  fell  to  the  sidewalk. 
He  looked  down;  to  his  horror  some  half  dozen 
pieces  of  jewelry  had  fallen  out — a  ring  or  two,  a 
brooch,  a  bracelet,  and,  half  in,  half  out,  a  con 
fused  pile  of  precious  stones,  sparkling  under  the 
light.  He  looked  up  to  see  Miss  Charmion  star 
ing  pale-faced  at  the  revelation.  The  next  min 
ute  a  uniformed  porter  ran  up  to  her  and  touched 
his  cap. 

"Your  taxi,  Miss  Charmion/'  he  said,  and,  bow 
ing,  pointed  the  way  to  where  a  green  car  waited 
at  the  curb. 

Fenton  was  too  embarrassed  to  speak.  He  stood 
foolishly  staring  as  she  looked  at  him  coldly,  and 
said:  "Then  I  shall  not  need  to  impose  on  you, 
Count.  But  thank  you  just  the  same."  And, 
drawing  herself  up,  she  walked  proudly  to  the  taxi- 
cab,  turned  and  gazed  at  him,  then  got  in  and  drove 
away. 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  241 

Not  till  her  car  skived  the  corner  and  disap 
peared  did  Fenton  take  his  eyes  from  her.  Then, 
with  a  sigh,  he  stooped,  scraped  the  jewels  into  the 
bag  as  the  porter  stared,  and  walked  to  the  Mor 
gan's  touring  car. 

"Where  shall  I  drive,  sir?"  the  chauffeur  in 
quired. 

It  was  some  moments  before  Fenton  could  col 
lect  his  senses  enough  to  recall  the  address  the  octo 
roon  had  given  him.  Where  was  it?  The  stirring 
events  of  the  night  had  all  but  obliterated  her 
words.  Somewhere  in  Harlem.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes, 
The  Norcross,  505,  no,  555  West  One  Hundred  and 
Forty-sixth  Street.  That  was  it.  He  gave  the  ad 
dress,  got  into  the  car  beside  Karl,  the  chauffeur,  and 
they  whirled  away. 

He  crammed  his  silk  hat  down  hard  over  his 
ears  and  leaned  back  in  the  car  to  enjoy  the  ride. 
The  brisk,  mild  wind  ran  merrily  past  him.  I  The 
winking  lights  on  the  Jersey  shore  flashed  brightly 
across  the  Hudson.  His  brain  cleared.  Surely  he 
had  much  to  think  of;  much  had  happened  since  he 
left  his  Harlem  home  a  careless,  thoughtless  boy. 
But  there  was  only  one  thing  he  could  think  of  now 
• — he  put  all  other  things  aside,  and  revelled  in  his 


242  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

dream.  He  thought  of  nothing  but  Belle  Charmion. 
He  wanted  no  one  but  Belle  Charmion.  Belle 
Charmion,  in  low  cut,  pale  blue  voile,  Belle  Char 
mion  of  the  olive  skin  and  whimsical  smile — who 
was  Belle  Charmion?  What  fate  had  led  him  con 
tinually  in  crossing  and  recrossing  paths  towards 
Belle  Charmion  ?  Did  she  know,  or  care,  what  des 
tiny  allied  them  in  this  mysterious  way — John  Fen- 
ton  and  Belle  Charmion?  He  loved  Belle  Char 
mion;  could  Belle  Charmion  love  him?  When 
would  they  meet  in  peace,  in  joy?  When  would 
they  talk  and  tell  what  he  so  longed  to  hear,  he  and 
Belle  Charmion?  Oh,  the  smooth,  soft  contour  of 
her  cheek,  the  exquisite  gesture  of  her  hand!  So 
he  dreamed,  fancy-free  in  joyous  abandon  of  Belle 
Charmion!  Belle  Charmion!  Belle  Charmion! 

"Say,  this  is  one  great  night,  ain't  it?" 

Fenton  came  down  with  a  thud  from  the  clouds 
of  romance  to  the  chauffeur's  commonplace.  He 
gave  the  remark  a  mumbling  reply:  "Fine!" 

"Yes ;  'it's  the  wrong  kind  of  a  night  to  go  home 
in/  as  Ruby  Diamond  used  to  say." 

"  'Diamond  ?'  "  Fenton  queried,  remembering  the 
phenomenal  blonde  of  the  Caxton,  "do  you  happen 
to  know  Miss  Diamond?  That's  queer." 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  243 

The  chauffeur  laughed.  "Know  her?  I  drove 
the  front  cab  with  her  and  young  Framingham 
when  they  busted  up  the  Yale  funeral !" 

"D'you  know  a  girl  she  runs  with  named  Millie 
something — a  little  black-eyed  devil?" 

"Millie  St.  Valentine  ?  Well,  I  guess  yes !  She's 
the  one  that  drove  the  hearse  with  John  Adams 
Quincy,  3d." 

"The  hearse !  What  the  deuce  w as  the  Yale  fu 
neral,  anyway?  Say,  I  guess  you'd  better  tell  me 
about  it — if  it  isn't  too  long  a  story." 

The  chauffeur  chuckled  to  himself.  "It  was 
lucky  for  Quincy  it  wasn't  a  longer  story,"  he  said. 
"It  was  short,  but  it  certainly  was  lively.  I'll  tell 
jyou  about  it."  And,  as  he  gave  the  steering  wheel 
a  sharp  turn  and  turned  the  car  into  Ninety- fourth 
Street,  he  began : 

THE   GREAT   YALE   FUNERAL 

Why,  this  was  Thanksgiving  Day — a  year  ago — 
you  remember  the  football  game  when  Harvard 
trimmed  Yale  for  the  first  time  in  nine  years  ?  Six 
to  four  the  score  was,  and  every  Cambridge  man 
in  New  Haven  went  crazy.  I  wasn't  there,  but  I 


244  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

hear  it  was  like  a  matinee  in  an  ancient  Roman  am 
phitheater.  After  the  preliminary  orgies  the  Har 
vard  rioters  went  to  Boston  to  celebrate.  The  pride 
and  chivalry  of  Yale  was  due  in  New  York  to 
drown  their  sorrows  in  a  theater  party  at  the  "Mar 
rying  Mary"  show. 

Well,  there  was  one  Harvard  rooter  who  was  so 
spifflicated  by  the  triumph  that  he  couldn't  box  the 
compass  any  more.  That  was  John  Adams  Quincy 
3d.  He  was  genially  kidnapped  by  some  of  the 
speedy  Sons  of  Eli  with  no  hard  feelings,  and  the 
first  thing  he  knew  they  had  him  in  the  Yale  train 
pulling  out  for  New  York.  When  he  began  to  look 
out  the  window  for  New  London  he  suspected  that 
something  was  wrong,  but  it  was  too  late  to  do  any 
thing  by  that  time.  He  would  have  to  miss  the 
crimson  fire  and  the  gilding  of  John  Harvard  and 
the  Cambridge  police  after  all.  The  Yale  men  gave 
him  the  "ha-ha"  and  told  him  little  old  New  York 
would  have  to  do.  So  he  made  the  best  of  it  and 
went,  reminding  them  of  the  score  and  the  snake- 
dance  every  time  he  opened  a  bottle,  which  was 
plenty  often. 

He  was  a  thoroughbred,  that  Quincy  3d.  He 
was  a  spender,  and  he  had  money  to  spend.  He 


WYCHERLEY    COURT  245 

was  fairly  poisonous  with  greenbacks.  Old  man 
Quincy  was  a  triple-dyed  billionaire,  in  the  first 
place;  and  in  the  second,  young  Quincy  had  backed 
the  Harvard  eleven  for  about  $5,000  at  2  to  5.  He 
had  something  like  $16,000  in  his  pants  when  he 
got  off  the  train  at  the  Grand  Central  Station.  By 
that  time  almost  every  Yale  man  in  his  car  was 
down  and  out,  but  John  Adams  Quincy  3d  was 
walking  on  the  atmosphere,  shedding  $10  bills  at 
the  slightest  provocation. 

I  was  running  a  taxicab  then,  and  of  course  I 
never  knew  anything  about  his  start  till  afterwards 
when  Millie  told  me  all  about  it.  My  first  sight  of 
the  fun  come  when  I  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
Abbots',  on  Forty-fifth  street,  waiting  for  a  fare, 
and  young  Quincy  blew  round  the  corner  from 
"Jack's." 

Now  I  wouldn't  want  to  say  Quincy  was  soused, 
exactly.  That's  an  ugly  word  for  a  gent  like  him. 
But  you  might  say  he  was — well — glorified,  like. 
Exhilarated — transmogrified — I  don't  know  what 
you'd  call  it.  I  never  had  $i  5,000  between  me  and 
working- for-a-living,  and  I  ain't  sure  how  it  feels — • 
but  Quincy  was  happy,  there  was  no  doubt  about 
that.  His  hat  was  dented  in  and  his  collar  was 


246  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

marked  all  over  "6  to  4,"  and  he  was  singing  his 
Harvard  lay  to  the  tune  of  "Three  Blind  Mice." 

"Yale  is  dead,  Yale  is  dead,  Yale  is  dead, 
Eli  said,  Eli  said,  Eli  said, 

'They  might  grow  crimson,  but  we'd  grow  blue!' 
They  gobbled  our  money  at  five  to  two ; 
We  let  them  have  it,  then  WHAT  DID  WE  DO? 
Yale  is  dead !" 

You  know  the  Abbots'  ?  It's  mostly  a  press  agents' 
club — theatrical  men,  anyway.  Well,  Johnny  Hobbs 
of  the  Hippodrome  was  just  coming  out  the  door 
with  Nat  Goodwin  and  a  bunch  of  actors.  Quincy 
recognized  the  big  chap,  so  he  come  up  and  slapped 
him  on  the  back  and  said : 

"Hello,  Nat;  how  are  you?" 

Goodwin  beamed.  "Why,  I'm  a  hygienic  dream!" 
he  said. 

"Yale's  dead !"  says  Quincy. 

"Then  you  ought  to  give  her  a  first-class  fu 
neral,"  says  Nat  Goodwin.  He  took  Quincy's  arm 
and  spoke  confidentially.  "None  of  these  cloth-cov 
ered  pine  boxes  with  two  hacks  at  $85 — you  ought 
to  have  at  least  twenty-seven  carriages  and  a  band!" 

"By  the  jumping  John  Harvard,  I  will!"  says 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  247 

Quincy.  "But  not  twenty-seven  hacks — twenty- 
seven  hearses — and  then  some!" 

Nat  walked  away  with  his  bunch,  laughing; 
Quincy  stood  thinking  it  out.  Johnny  Hobbs  looked 
him  over  thoughtfully. 

"D'you  mean  it?"  he  asked.  "If  you  do,  I  got 
an  idea." 

"Do  I  mean  it!  Ain't  I  alone  in  a  great  city 
after  the  first  time  we've  busted  into  Yale  in  nine 
years?  I'm  certainly  going  to  celebrate  if  it  costs 
me  my  inheritance!"  And  Quincy  pulls  a  roll  of 
yellow-backs  out  of  his  hip  pocket  and  shows 
enough  money  to  make  Johnny  Hobbs  fairly  sick 
to  his  stomach. 

"You  come  right  in  here,"  says  Johnny.  "I'll 
fix  you,  for  fair!  Wait  till  I  get  to  the  telephone 
and  I'll  have  all  the  dead  wagons  in  New  York  here 
in  half  an  hour.  You  won't  have  to  celebrate  alone 
neither.  I'll  present  you  to  the  smashingest  little 
brunette  in  town,  and  if  she  don't  drive  that  Yale 
hearse  for  you,  she'll  never  get  another  engagement 
on  the  stage  while  I'm  alive!" 

With  that  he  pulls  Quincy  into  the  Abbots'.  My 
fare  come  out  just  then,  and  I  clocked  him  to  the., 
Astor  Hotel. 


248  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Well,  just  as  I  was  pocketing  my  tip,  this  young 
Framingham  chap  come  by  with  a  bunch  of  men 
with  Yale  flags,  all  as  sizzy  as  sky-rockets. 

Ever  heard  of  Montrose  Framingham?  Why, 
old  President  Framingham's  son,  you  know ;  the  N. 
Y.  &  Penn.  R.  R.  man — the  man  they  used  to  call 
"Gold  Socks"  Framingham  after  he  cornered  that 
western  timber  pool.  The  old  man  had  money 
enough  to  wrap  up  the  Metropolitan  tower  in  and 
tie  it  with  a  gold  string;  and  he  never  was  stingy 
,with  Montrose.  It  was  him  give  Yale  that  big 
Ancient  History  building  in  his  freshman  year. 
That's  why  he  never  got  fired,  although  he  certainly 
was  some  lively  round  about  New  Haven. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  young  Framingham  come 
up  to  me  (I'd  driven  him  all  over  town — once  I  took 
him  to  Richmond,  Va.,  in  my  cab  on  a  bet),  and  he 
says — 

"Hello,  Squash"  (the  fellows  call  me  that  be 
cause  I  like  squash  pie  with  a  layer  of  red  pepper 
on  top  of  it) — "What  the  name  of  Eli  are  you  driv 
ing  a  red  taxi  for?  I  thought  you  was  a  good  Yale 
man." 

"I  hear  Yale's  dead !"  says  I,  grinning. 

"You   yellow-eyed   clockwork   crook,"   he   says, 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  249 

"for  two  cents  I'd  drown  you  in  cylinder  oil !  Who 
told  you  that?" 

"I  got  it  from  John  Adams  Quincy  3d/'  I  says 
"and  what's  more,  he's  going  to  give  Eli  a  funeral 
in  New  York  right  away  to-night!" 

"Is  that  right?"  he  says;  "Honest?" 

I  told  him  what  I'd  heard  in  front  of  the  Abbots' 
and  he  called  after  his  gang  to  come  back  and  hear. 
When  I  gave  them  the  tale  they  yelled  like  Co- 
manches. 

"Get  into  here,"  says  Framingham,  and  he  gets 
up  side  of  me  and  the  rest  pile  into  the  back,  and 
I  took  'em  round  to  the  front  of  the  Astor. 

There  Framingham  got  out  and  ran  up  to  the 
cab  starter. 

"Order  all  the  taxicabs  you  can  get!"  he  says. 

The  starter  was  staggered.  "What  d'you  mean, 
sir?"  he  says.  "How  many  do  you  need?" 

"Anything  up  to  a  hundred — and  have  'em  here 
in  half  an  hour  round  the  corner!"  says  Framing- 
ham. 

Then  he  comes  up  to  me  and  asks  me  who  is  the 
press  agent  for  the  Metropolis  Theater.  I  told  him 
it  was  Abey  Moonstone,  and  we  started  to  look 
him  up. 


250  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked  Framing* 
ham.  • 

"I'm  going  to  bust  up  that  funeral,"  he  says,  "if 
it  costs  me  my  degree !"  And  I  knew  he  meant  it. 

Well,  it  didn't  take  us  long  to  find  Abey  at  the 
Knickerbocker  bar,  and  it  didn't  take  Abey  long  to 
see  what  they  was  in  it  for  him  and  the  Metropolis 
Theater.  He  hurried  out  and  rung  up  Ruby  Dia 
mond,  his  first  prize  show  girl,  and  by  the  time  we 
got  round  to  the  Woodstock  Hotel,  where  she  lived, 
she  was  ready  for  us  in  a  pale  blue  slippery  skin 
tight  dress  and  a  millionaire  hat.  The  rest  was 
jewelry  and  ermine.  Say,  you've  seen  Ruby  Dia 
mond — no  man  can  look  on  her  and  live!  She's 
the  ultimate  peach !  Abey  introduced  the  two  prin 
cipals  of  the  anti-funeral  crusade  and  we  proceeded 
to  get  out  and  look  for  a  band. 

Well,  there  wasn't  a  blessed  band  we  could  get — 
Quincy  had  caught  the  only  one  for  sale,  coming 
home  from  a  Schiitzenverein  hullabaloo,  and  we 
was  up  against  it  good. 

"Say,"  says  Ruby,  "what's  the  matter  with  a  Sal 
vation  Army  band?  They  make  a  whole  lot  of 
noise,  and  they  wear  blue." 

"You  can't  get  'em,"  I  says. 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  251 

"I'll  endow  a  hospital!"  says  Framingham.  "I'll 
give  'em  a  million  new  uniforms — I'll  put  up  for 
the  Christmas  dinner  for  all  the  bums  east  of  the 
Alleghenies!  You  drive  down  to  the  headquarters 
and  I'll  fix  the  commander-in-chief  if  I  have  to  de 
posit  my  gold-bearing  bonds!  I'm  going  to  have 
a  female  band  in  blue,  or  I'll  eat  it!  'Rah  for 
Yale!" 

So  we  clocks  down  to  see  the  general.  I  never 
heard  what  it  cost  young  Framingham.  They  must 
have  taxed  him  something  savage,  but  he  got  three 
bands.  They  was  on  their  way  to  the  big  Thanks 
giving  Day  free  feed,  and  was  ordered  to  meet  us 
at  the  Flatiron  Building. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  Astor  we  found  a  pro 
cession  of  taxicabs  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
long,  waiting.  There  was  red,  green,  yellow  and 
black  cars,  and  a  Yale  man  in  each.  Moreover, 
about  every  one  of  'em  had  a  chorus  girl  out  of  the 
Metropolis — "The  Curly  Girlies"  was  running  then 
— and  the  crowd  was  beginning  to  gather  some 
plenty — the  traffic  cops  was  near  crazy. 

I  took  the  head  of  the  line  and  led  the  string 
down  Eighth  avenue  and  across  Twenty-second  to 
where  the  three  bands  was  waiting — then  we  set 


252  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

out  looking  for  Quincy's  funeral  and  trouble.  Our 
scouts  had  come  in  and  located  a  line  of  about  thir 
ty-three  hearses  forming  on  Second  avenue  and 
Thirty-fourth  street.  Anyone  who  had  any  sense 
could  be  sure  that  that  procession  would  head 
straight  for  Times  Square.  John  Adams  Quincy 
3d  was  no  yap,  and  we  were  sure  he'd  calculate  to 
hit  the  middle  of  New  York  City  good  and  hard — 
before  he  got  pulled.  So  Montrose  Framingham 
give  the  word  to  steer  up  Broadway.  The  Salva 
tion  lassies  struck  up 

"Are  you  washed, 
Are  you  washed, 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?'* 

and  off  we  went. 

There  was  some  good  yelling  when  we  struck  the 
Great  White  Way,  and  you  needn't  think  we  didn't 
draw  a  crowd !  It  was  about  half  past  seven  by  this 
time  and  the  Tenderloin  was  beginning  to  get  busy. 
At  Thirty- fourth  street  we  formed  in  line  two 
abreast,  and  the  cornets  switched  to  "Onward, 
Christian  Soldiers!"  It  was  going  fine.  The  cops 
couldn't  stop  the  Salvation  Army  because  they  had 


WYCHERLEY    COURT  253 

permits — and  as  for  the  taxis — ain't  they  got  a 
right  to  the  street  ? 

It  was  smooth  sailing  till  we  got  to  Forty-second 
Street  and  we  sighted  the  funeral.  There  it  was, 
held  up  east  of  Broadway  with  the  Schtitzen  band 
playing  the  "Dead  March"  in  Saul  and  a  row  of 
hearses  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  and  a  crowd 
running  up  and  growing  bigger  every  minute. 

And  what  d'you  think?  Driving  every  hearse 
was  a  Hippodrome  chorus  girl  in  evening  dress! 
Johnny  Hobbs  had  certainly  done  it  well.  Abey 
Moonstone  was  wild. 

Our  fares  give  the  Yale  yell  and  it  was  answered 
by  Harvard  "Rahs !"  from  the  Hippodrome  girls — 
Quincy  stood  up  and  begun  to  sing  "Yale  is  Dead !" 
— and  then  they  got  the  traffic  cop's  whistle  to  cross 
Broadway. 

On  they  come.  It  was  so  funny  you  wanted  to 
cry.  By  this  time  they  was  a  million  people  spilled 
around  there — and  some  fool  pulled  the  fire  alarm 
just  to  help  it  along. 

Now,  whether  the  traffic  cop  at  the  corner  got 
rattled  and  really  did  blow  his  "come  on"  whistle, 
or  whether  it  was  a  riot-call  or  something,  I  never 


254  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

knew.  The  cop  denied  it.  Anyway  we  all  heard  a 
whistle,  and  young  Framingham  yells  to  me : 

"By  the  seven  pink  Salamanders  of  Shiraz, 
Squash,  go  at  'em!  If  you'll  bust -that  Harvard 
guy's  hearse  I'll  give  you  a  hundred  dollars  and  go 
bail!" 

I  turned  back  and  waved  to  the  line — "Come  on!" 
I  says,  and  on  we  went.  There  was  a  yell  from  the 
mob  you  could  have  heard  to  the  Flatiron,  and  I 
charged  for  Quincy.  I  caught  his  nigh  hind  wheel 
and  busted  it  right  to  smithereens.  Then  a  mounted 
cop  galloped  up  and  got  me. 

Well,  it  sure  was  funny !  The  hearse  keeled  over 
on  the  hubs  and  spilled  out  Quincy  and  Millie  St. 
Valentine.  They  jumped  just  in  time  and  landed 
on  their  feet.  And  in  less  than  two  minutes  the 
place  was  so  tangled  up  with  hearses  and  taxicabs 
and  Schiitzenvereins  and  Salvationists  that  you 
couldn't  tell  which  was  which.  The  crowd  swarmed 
into  the  mess  like  flies  and  then  come  the  fire  en 
gines — two  steamers  from  each  point  of  the  com 
pass,  and  after  them  the  ladder  trucks  and  the  water 
tower  and  then  two  patrol  wagons  full  of  reserves. 
Then  the  police  got  busy. 

Well,  I  was  taken  to  the  station  about  that  time, 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  255 

and  so  I  missed  it.  But  I  got  the  story  from  Millie 
St.  Valentine. 

The  minute  John  Adams  Quincy  3d  struck  the 
ground  he  seemed  to  come  to,  and  wake  up  to  the 
fact  that  he'd  got  in  bad. 

"By  Jupiter!"  he  says  to  Millie,  "this  is  going  to 
cost  me  about  four  million  dollars !" 

"Oh,  it  ain't  so  bad  as  all  that !"  says  Millie.  "It'll 
probably  be  only  'ten  dollars  or  ten  days.' ' 

"Don't  you  believe  it!"  says  Quincy.  "I  know 
better.  Why,  I'm  ruined.  We've  got  to  beat  it!" 

Millie  said  she  thought  he  was  a  piker  for  fair, 
then ;  she  didn't  have  any  idea  that  he'd  more'n  just 
got  cold  feet.  He  took  her  hand  and  ducked  through 
the  crowd  with  her  and  rushed  her  into  Rector's. 
Then  she  found  out  what  he  was  worrying  about. 

It  seems  young  Quincy  had  been  in  hot  water  be 
fore  and  his  folks  was  sore.  He'd  been  featured  in 
the  police  news  in  Boston  papers  so  often,  in  fact, 
that  his  old  man  had  give  it  to  him  straight  that  if 
it  ever  happened  again  he'd  disinherit  him. 

See  how  it  was?  Quincy  had  already  kicked  up 
a  row  that  would  make  more  talk  on  Broadway 
than  anything  that  had  happened  since  the  Dewey 
parade.  The  morning's  papers  would  be  full  of  it 


256  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

— he  could  just  see  the  scare-heads  "Young  Million 
aire  Plays  Ghastly  Joke  on  the  Rialto" — and  all  like 
that. 

Millie  kind  of  felt  for  him.  Quincy  was  a  nice 
boy  and  she  liked  him.  So  she  said,  "Well,  the  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  fix  the  papers — but  it'll  cost  a  lot !" 

"I  don't  care  if  it  costs  two  hundred  thousand," 
says  Quincy.  "It'll  be  cheap  at  the  price.  Will  you 
come  with  me,  O  Queen?" 

She  said  she  would. 

Well,  if  you  know  anything  about  city  editors 
you  can  imagine  what  happened.  The  minute  they 
see  the  girl  it  was  all  off,  and  the  more  money 
Quincy  offered,  the  more  stubborn  they  got.  What ! 
kill  a  story  like  that — son  of  a  millionaire  and  the 
prettiest  brunette  in  N.  Y.  C.  ?  Not  much.  Look 
at  the  pictures !  Look  at  the  society  slush  they  could 
throw  in!  Think  of  the  "well-known  clubman" 
stuff  and  the  "strikingly  beautiful  brunette."  It 
was  too  good  to  keep  back.  Quincy  was  no  sooner 
out  of  the  office  with  his  grouch  than  the  city  editor 
was  telephoning  to  the  police  stations,  ordering 
photographs  and  sending  for  his  star  reporter. 
That  was  the  tale  all  over  town.  Quincy  was  per 
fectly  sick. 


WYCHERLEY   COURT  257 

Well,  he  took  Millie  home  and  she  tried  to  jolly 
him  up  but  it  was  no  use.  He  figured  that  he  was 
out  three  millions  at  least  by  his  folly,  and  he  left 
her  reception-room  talking  a  lot  about  suicide. 
Millie  allows  she  was  pretty  badly  scared. 

Well,  of  course  all  this  time  Johnny  Hobbs  had 
been  good  and  busy.  He  'phoned  in  the  story  as  a 
"friend  of  the  paper"  to  every  city  editor,  he  sent 
about  a  thousand  photographs  of  Millie  down-town 
by  messengers,  and  then  he  waylaid  the  "Ten 
O'Clock  Club" — the  theater  details  from  the  papers. 
He  tipped  them  off  with  all  sorts  of  fancy  details 
he'd  doped  up,  and  then  he  went  to  bed  happy;  so 
did  Abey  Moonstone,  who'd  been  on  the  same  job 
with  three  stenographers. 

Of  course  that  was  what  saved  Quincy — them 
press  agents  done  it  too  well.  Every  city  editor  in 
town  smelled  a  "plant"  and  give  orders  at  midnight 
to  "kill"  the  story. 

So  when  John  Adams  Quincy  3d  got  up  at  five 
o'clock  next  morning  at  the  Plaza  and  sent  down  for 
the  papers,  expecting  to  see  his  name  in  a  three- 
column  scare-head — he  spent  two  hours  going 
through  them  with  a  fine- tooth  comb  to  find  that  the 
funniest  thing  that  happened  on  Broadway  within 


258  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

the  memory  of  man  hadn't  been  so  much  as  men 
tioned  in  a  single  paper !  All  the  same  it  didn't  save 
him  his  money.  Millie  married  him  three  weeks 
afterward  and  got  most  of  it  after  all. 


XI 
THE   NORCROSS    APARTMENTS 

HOW  JOHN  FENTON  HELPS  OUT  A  CRIMINAL  SCHEME, 

WITNESSES  AN  ARREST  AND  AN  ESCAPE,   WAITS 

IN  A  DESERTED  FLAT  AND  GETS  A  NEW 

NAME. 

THE  chauffeur  had  hardly  finished  his  story  be 
fore  the  car  drew  up  to  the  curb  in  front  of  a 
brick  apartment  house  on  One  Hundred  and  Sev 
enty-fifth  Street,  and  stopped.  Fenton  descended, 
felt  in  his  pockets  in  vain  for  a  tip,  and  bade  the 
chauffeur  an  apologetic  good-night.  He  went  into 
the  vestibule  and  looked  along  the  row  of  letter 
boxes  for  the  name  of  "Flint,"  and  pressed  the 
electric  button  above.  A  muffled  "hello"  came,  di 
minished  and  faint,  through  the  speaking  tube.  He 
replied. 

"What  the   devil   is   it?"   the   invisible   speaker 
asked. 

"I've  got  the  jewels,"  Fenton  shouted  through 
the  mouthpiece. 

259 


26o  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

A  spasmodic  clicking  of  the  electric  latch  came  in 
answer.  By  its  nervous  rapidity  Fenton  could  easily 
imagine  that  his  information  had  caused  some  ex 
citement.  He  pushed  open  the  front  door  and  ran 
up-stairs.  The  halls  were  dimly  lighted,  and  he 
looked  in  vain  for  any  indications  of  a  greeting.  Up 
to  the  second,  up  to  the  third  floor,  and  then,  look 
ing  higher,  he  heard  a  man's  gruff  voice  calling 
stealthily,  "One  flight  more!"  Up  Fenton  went 
with  his  bag. 

At  the  top  a  man,  unrecognizable  in  the  semi- 
darkness,  seized  his  arm  and  hurried  him  toward  a 
lighted  hallway,  spun  him  round  and  looked  at  him 
eagerly. 

"Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"My  name  doesn't  matter,"  said  Fenton.  "I've 
got  the  stuff  right  here." 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged!"  he  ejaculated,  and  then 
he  looked  at  Fenton  again.  "Where  in  the  devil 
did  you  get  'em?" 

Fenton  had,  by  this  time,  learned  discretion,  and 
replied  only  by  a  question.  "Is  Flint  here  ?" 

The  man  stared;  his  expression  changed,  then  he 
controlled  himself.  "Yes,  I'm  Flint,"  he  said 
finally. 


THE   NORCROSS   APARTMENTS    261 

Fenton  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Oh,  then,  I 
suppose  it's  all  right.  You'll  take  'em  right  back  to 
the  Brewster  house,  I  suppose?  You'll  lose  no 
time?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  I'll  get  'em  back,  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning." 

Fenton  handed  him  the  bag  somewhat  reluctantly. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  else  to  do,  but  it  seemed 
a  mild  ending  to  his  night  of  adventure.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  it  was  Flint,  by  the  octoroon's  de 
scription.  He  grabbed  the  bag  fiercely  and  looked 
inside,  then  snapped  it  shut.  Fenton  became  un 
easy. 

"Then  I  can  tell  Miss — you  know,  the  girl,  that 
it's  all  right?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  it's  all  right,  son."  Flint  held  the  bag  be 
hind  his  back.  "They'll  be  in  the  safe  by  nine 
o'clock,  before  the  coroner  comes.  But  you'd  bet 
ter  skip,  now.  There's  no  need  of  exciting  sus 
picion.  Go  home  and  go  to  bed.  You've  done 
well."  He  crowded  Fenton  to  the  doorway  nerv 
ously  and  stood  guarding  it. 

Fenton  turned  hesitatingly.  "I  hope  I  can  find 
her,"  he  said.  "She  was  awfully  worried  about 
this — but  I've  done  all  I  can,  I  suppose." 


262  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Good  night!"  said  the  man  abruptly,  and  sud 
denly  slammed  the  door.  Fenton  heard  the  lock 
dick. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  grew  actively  sus 
picious.  Flint  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  grizzled  creature, 
wrinkled  and  weatherbeaten,  with  deep-set  gray 
eyes.  As  he  turned  for  his  final  word,  he  showed 
a  great,  misshapen  ear.  The  lower  lobe  was  split 
half  in  two.  Suddenly,  as  if  spoken  by  an  audible 
voice,  came  the  fortune-teller's  words — "beware  of 
a  man  with  a  split  ear!"  Fenton's  suspicions  grew 
blacker.  But  he  had  done  exactly  what  he  had  been 
asked  to  do — if  there  were  any  mistake  it  was  surely 
not  his.  He  turned  slowly  to  the  staircase,  and 
walked  down,  thinking.  Well,  it  was  too  late,  now. 
Perhaps  it  was  all  right.  Why  should  he  worry? 
So  thinking  he  went  down-stairs  and  out  to  the 
street. 

Should  he  go  home  ?  He  smiled  at  his  costume — 
his  dress  clothes  and  top  hat  seemed  to  demand  an 
other  adventure.  He  felt  abstractedly  in  his 
pockets  for  a  cigarette,  and  noticed  for  the  first  time 
that  again  his  pockets  were  absolutely  empty.  What 
a  night !  He  yawned,  and  walked  up  One  Hundred 
and  Forty-sixth  Street  thinking  of  Belle  Charmion. 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    263 

Just  as  he  turned  the  corner  two  men,  walking 
rapidly,  passed  him.  He  caught  but  a  momentary 
look,  but  that  sight  made  him  turn  eagerly  and  gaze 
at  them  again.  There  was  something  familiar  about 
both  of  them — by  Jove!  It  was  O'Shea  and  Elk- 
hurst — or,  as  it  appeared  both  had  aliases,  Nailery 
and  Sproule.  Neither  had  recognized  him,  for 
tunately.  He  stopped,  in  a  trance  of  wonder.  What 
did  this  encounter  mean  ? 

He  could  still  see  them  walking  rapidly  toward 
the  Norcross  Apartments.  As  Fenton  stood  there, 
gaping  at  the  sight,  they  turned  up  the  steps  and 
entered  the  building.  Then,  in  a  flash  he  began  to 
suspect  them.  Of  course  both  were  after  the  jew 
els — and,  if  they,  were  going  up  to  the  apartment, 
either  they  would  attack  Flint — or  wait!  Now  he 
had  it!  Flint  was  probably  a  member  of  the  same 
gang!  It  was  as  plain  as  a  photograph,  at  last. 

Evidently  Flint  had  been  notified  of  the  capture 
of  the  gems.  Well,  no  wonder  he  had  been  surprised 
when  Fenton  had  handed  them  back  to  one  of  the 
gang  itself!  Fenton  cursed  himself  for  his  stu 
pidity. 

But  all  this  was  surmise.  He  wanted  to  make 
sure,  and  hurried  back  to  the  entrance  of  the  Nor- 


264  FIND   THE   .WOMAN 

cross  Apartments,  and  found  that,  by  some  accident, 
the  outer  door  had  not  latched.  He  crept  up  four 
flights,  approached  the  door  of  Flint's  apartment, 
put  his  ear  to  the  keyhole  and  listened. 

A  hoarse  burst  of  laughter  greeted  his  ears.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  it.  Even  now,  no  doubt,  with 
blood  on  their  hands,  they  were  dividing  the  spoil. 

What  could  he  do  ?  Nothing,  it  seemed ;  and  yet 
he  would  not  leave  the  place.  He  walked  down 
stairs  trying  to  think  of  some  plan  to  retrieve  his 
blunder.  On  the  floor  below  he  looked  about,  saw 
a  door  without  a  nameplate,  tried  it,  and  found  it 
was  unlocked.  He  opened  it  and  walked  in — there 
was  no  carpet  on  the  floor.  It  was  evident  the  flat 
was  vacant. 

He  groped  his  way  along  the  inner,  hall,  a  long, 
straight  passage  toward  the  rear;  and  emerged, 
finally,  after  bumping  into  several  corners,  into  a 
small  kitchen  faintly  illuminated  by  the  moon. 
Through  the  windows  he  saw  a  fire-escape.  He  left 
his  precious  silk  hat  upon  the  washtubs,  lifted 
the  sash,  crawled  out,  and  cautiously  ascended  the 
iron  ladder.  The  windows  of  the  kitchen  above, 
however,  were  dark,  and  they  were  fastened.  There 
could  be  nothing  done  that  way,  and  he  returned. 


THE    NORCROSS   APARTMENTS    265 

Cruising  about  on  a  little  voyage  of  discovery,  he 
found  a  candle  end  and  a  few  matches  on  the  kitchen 
shelf.  He  struck  a  light  and  sat  down  on  the  top 
of  the  tubs  to  think.  He  had  not  waited  long  be 
fore  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  floor  above;  then 
there  was  a  rattle  in  the  shaft,  and  he  heard  the 
dumb  waiter  descending. 

Holding  his  lighted  candle  in  one  hand,  Fenton 
opened  the  sheet-iron  door  and  saw  the  rope  run 
ning.  He  held  the  candle  nearer  and  looked  up. 
The  dumb  waiter  was  now  visible,  slowly  descend 
ing.  He  watched  it,  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  It 
came  to  the  level  of  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  that  both 
shelves  were  empty.  The  next  moment  he  was  sur 
prised  to  see  two  feet,  patent  leathered,  shining  in 
the  candle-light,  standing  on  top  of  the  apparatus. 
Slowly  the  waiter  moved  down,  creaking.  Panta 
loons  appeared,  a  coat,  then  hands  carefully  work 
ing  at  the  rope.  Another  minute  and  the  lower  half 
of  the  body  had  disappeared  in  the  hole  and  he  was 
confronted  by  the  astonished  eyes  of  Elkhurst,  alias 
Sproule.  The  little  car  stopped.  Sproule  looked  as 
queer  as  an  actor  in  a  Punch  and  Judy  show, — 
like  some  curious  Jack-in-the-pulpit,  though  too 
amazed,  too  fearful,  apparently,  to  speak.  Fenton 


266  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

stood  with  the  lighted  candle  dripping  grease  upon 
his  evening  coat,  with  his  tall  hat  rakishly  ajar  upon 
his  head.  The  moment  was  dramatic ;  there  was  an 
instant  of  fine  sustained  suspense,  and  then  the 
gentleman  who  had  seen  the  more  of  the  world 
spoke. 

"By  Jove !  it's  the  chap  I  gave  that  tweed  suit  to ! 
For  Heaven's  sake  help  me  out,  and  be  quick  about 
it." 

There  was  indeed  need  of  haste,  for  above  were 
now  heard  cries  of  rage  and  anger,  hurrying  foot 
steps,  and  finally  a  bang  at  the  door  of  the  shaft  in 
the  kitchen  overhead.  Sproule  made  a  quick  dive 
from  his  perch  and  landed  in  Fenton's  arms.  This 
extinguished  the  little  light. 

The  cries,  meanwhile,  had  increased  in  vigor,  and 
some  one  began  violently  pulling  up  the  dumb 
waiter.  Sproule  landed  with  stocking  feet  upon  the 
kitchen  floor.  He  released  himself  from  Fenton's 
arms,  then  silently  shut  the  door  of  the  shaft. 
There  was  a  riot  overhead. 

"Wait  till  I  lock  the  front  door!  Are  the  win 
dows  bolted?  Fasten  them  and  we'll  wait  in  the 
passage-way.  Is  there  a  key  to  this  confounded 
door  ?  Yes,  all  right.  Now  then,  come  on,  quick !" 


THE   NORCROSS   APARTMENTS    267 

Fenton  fastened  the  kitchen  windows  and  joined 
Sproule  in  the  hallway.  The  kitchen  door  was 
locked,  then  Sproule  went  to  the  door  to  the  stair 
way  and  saw  that  it  was  also  fastened.  The  clamor 
up-stairs  had  ceased,  or  at  least  it  could  not  be  heard 
from  where  they  stood.  But,  in  another  moment 
they  heard  men  rushing  up  the  stairs,  a  pounding  at 
the  hall  door  above,  then  a  smash  as  it  was  bro 
ken  in. 

"What's  that?"  Fenton  asked,  anxiously. 

"By  Jove,  I  believe  they're  pulled!"  said  Sproule. 
"I  got  out  just  in  time." 

"The  police  ?"  Fenton  inquired  breathlessly. 

"There  has  been  a  plain-clothes  man  following 
me  all  the  evening.  I  thought  we  had  thrown  him 
off  the  scent  at  the  Knickerbocker,  before  we  came 
up  here.  But  he  must  be  up  there  with  the  cops. 
Wait  till  they  come  down." 

They  waited  for  ten  minutes  without  speaking, 
listening  to  the  excitement  up-stairs,  and  finally 
the  clumping  of  footsteps  was  heard  on  the 
stairs  as  a  half-dozen  men  came  down.  As  soon 
as  they  had  passed  Sproule  opened  the  door  a  crack 
and  looked  out,  then,  seeing  that  they  were  almost 
down  the  next  flight,  ran  to  the  banisters  and 


268  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

looked  over.  Fenton  joined  him,  and  saw  the  last 
of  the  group  go  round  the  corner:  It  was  the  man 
in  the  shepherd's-plaid  suit  whom  he  had  already 
seen  that  evening,  at  Scheffel  Hall,  at  the  Plaza, 
and  at  the  St.  Paul  building  entrance. 

"Jove,  that  was  a  narrow  squeak — if  they  don't 
search  the  house!  Let's  come  into  the  front  room 
and  look."  He  led  the  way  to  a  small  front  parlor, 
and  up  to  the  window,  where  they  saw  a  patrol 
wagon  standing.  O'Shea  and  Flint  were  being 
helped  in,  and  the  man  in  the  shepherd's-plaid  suit 
was  talking  to  a  policeman  on  the  sidewalk.  As 
Fenton  watched,  these  two  also  got  into  the  wagon 
— and  it  drove  off. 

"He's  been  watching  me  for  a  week,  trying  to  lo 
cate  the  rest  of  the  gang,"  said  Sproule  in  a  low 
voice.  By  Jove,  if  I  could  only  get  out  of  here 
— they  wouldn't  see  me  in  New  York  for  one  while ! 
Say,  boy,"  he  took  Fenton  by  the  arm,  "it  may  be 
hard  for  you  to  believe  that  I'm  straight,  but  I  can 
prove  it.  O'Shea  knows  it  by  this  time,  but  luckily 
he  daren't  revenge  himself  on  me  for  trying  to 
queer  this  job  with  the  Brewster  jewels.  For  a 
week  I've  been  trying  to  give  him  the  double  cross." 

Fenton  drew  back  suspiciously,  but,  despite  the 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    269 

evidence  against  the  man,  his  manner  had  candor. 
It  was  hard  to  believe  him  a  murderer,  yet  it  was 
hard,  too,  to  believe  his  last  assertion.  "A  week ! — 
I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,"  he  said.  "Why,  the 
jewels  were  stolen  only  yesterday!" 

"Yes,  but  they  might  have  gone  at  any  minute. 
Flint  and  O'Shea  have  been  planning  to  blow  that 
safe  at  the  Brewster  house  for  a  long  while.  Before 
they  had  things  ready,  Brewster  got  away  with  the 
stuff  himself.  As  he  left  the  safe  door  partly 
open,  of  course  Flint  discovered  it,  and  when 
that  girl  brought  home  Brewster's  body  he  sus 
pected  where  the  jewels  must  be.  He  was  sure 
when  she  'phoned  him  about  them,  and  promised 
to  bring  them  up  to-night.  But  O'Shea  was  sus 
picious  of  her — he  judged  every  one  by  himself — 
they  were  too  valuable  to  trust  to  her  care,  at  any 
rate.  So  he  watched  her.  She  acted  so  queerly 
that  I  doubted  her  honesty  myself,  and  was  soon 
convinced  that  she  was  trying  to  get  away  with  the 
stuff. 

"Well,  we  shadowed  her  to  the  fortune-teller's 
house,  and  saw  you  go  into  the  same  place.  After 
the  raid  you  came  out  of  another  house,  so  I  fol 
lowed  you,  leaving  O'Shea  to  chase  the  girl. 


270  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

When  we  found  you  two  together  at  Scheffel  Hall 
we  were  sure  that  you  had  fixed  up  some  game;  in 
fact,  we  could  see  easily  enough  by  the  look  of  you 
— you  were  pretty  scared — that  you  had  the  jewels. 
So  we  didn't  take  any  chances;  O'Shea  and  Phillips- 
born  went  after  you.  I  was  half  a  block  behind, 
watching  for  the  police,  when  they  got  you." 

"Phillipsborn  ?"  Fenton  queried. 

"Why,  yes.  He  was  a  waiter  O'Shea  had  known 
for  some  time.  Queer  chap,  and  clever,  too.  He 
had  just  about  pulled  off  a  queer  game  with  a  young 
chap  named  Morgan.  He  made  up  to  Miss  Mor 
gan,  posing  as  a  foreign  count,  and  got  engaged  to 
her.  He  was  after  a  batch  of  pearls  they  had. 
O'Shea  got  him  to  help  us  follow  the  girl  we  sus 
pected  this  evening,  and  as  soon  as  that  was  finished, 
Phillipsborn  was  going  back  to  the  Morgans  as 
Count  Capricorni  and  close  up  that  job." 

"But  he's  dead !"  said  Fenton.  "He  must  be  the 
man  I  saw  on  the  floor  of  Nailery's  office  in  the  St. 
Paul  building!"  He  drew  away  from  Sproule  with 
renewed  suspicion. 

"That's  right,"  said  Sproule  soberly.  "And  it 
was  a  pretty  bad  piece  of  business,  too.  Do  you 
wonder  I'm  anxious  to  get  away?  But  it  was 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    271 

O'Shea  that  murdered  him,  and  O'Shea  will  go  to 
the  chair  for  it,  safe  enough.  You  see,  as  soon  as 
we  had  the  jewels,  I  took  a  couple  of  stones  and 
pawned  them  for  ready  money — as  we  were  terribly 
short  of  cash — arranging  to  meet  them  and  Flint  at 
the  Bartholdi  to  divide  up  the  loot.  Flint  was  to 
wait  up  at  the  Norcross,  here,  in  case  we  missed  you. 
Well,  after  I  got  up  to  the  Plaza  for  my  grip,  so  as 
to  be  all  ready  to  leave  town,  O'Shea  telephoned  me 
that  he  was  afraid  that  he  was  followed,  and  asked 
me  to  meet  him  in  the  St.  Paul  building,  where  he 
had  his  fake  office,  as  Nailery  &  Co.  I  went  down 
there,  hoping  to  get  some  chance  to  get  away  with 
the  stuff  myself;  at  any  rate,  I  was  determined  that 
this  would  be  my  last  job  with  O'Shea.  Phillipsborn 
stood  out  for  a  full  quarter,  as  his  share,  but  O'Shea 
wouldn't  have  it.  Phillipsborn  pulled  a  gun — and 
then  O'Shea  went  at  him  with  a  dirk,  like  a  butcher. 
Phillipsborn  went  down  with  O'Shea's  knife  be 
tween  his  ribs.  It  was  horrible ;  he  was  gasping  and 
bleeding  on  the  rug  when  O'Shea  and  I  were  terri 
fied  by  a  knock  at  the  office  door." 

"It  was  I,"  said  Fenton  breathlessly. 

"Well,  we  had  to  decide  everything  in  a  few  sec 
onds.  We  hadn't  money  enough  to  get  away  with ; 


272  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  get  up  to  Flint's  and  get 
him  to  give  us  some.  I  couldn't  escape  from 
O'Shea,  anyway.  He  was  frightened  white,  and  he 
clung  like  a  leech.  I  knew  that  there  was  a  detec 
tive  after  me;  he  had  followed  me  from  Scheffel 
Hall  to  the  Plaza,  and  was  probably  in  the  St.  Paul 
building.  But  I  had  to  take  a  chance  that  he 
wouldn't  arrest  me  till  I  had  led  him  to  the  rest  of 
the  gang  he  was  after.  He  was  running  down  a 
New  Haven  burglary,  I  was  sure — something  we 
had  pulled  off  a  few  days  before.  I  could  only 
hope  that  we  could  get  up  to  Flint's,  where  I  could 
get  away  from  O'Shea  before  the  place  was  pulled. 
Well,  I  saw  that  plain-clothes  man  out  of  the  tail 
of  my  eye  as  we  left,  and  we  led  him  a  chase,  dodg 
ing  up  one  street  and  down  another,  in  and  out  of 
saloons,  into  hotels,  even  into  one  theater.  He  kept 
on  our  trail  like  grim  death  for  an  hour,  then  I 
thought  I  had  thrown  him  off  the  scent.  By  this 
time  O'Shea  was  a  pulp  of  fear  and  suspense. 
When  we  got  to  Flint's,  though,  and  when  Flint 
told  of  how  you  had  handed  over  the  jewels, 
O'Shea  laughed  like  a  fool.  Flint  didn't  laugh, 
though,  when  he  saw  O'Shea  in  the  light.  The 
man's  coat  was  streaked  with  blood,  antf  his  hands 


THE   NORCROSS   APARTMENTS    273 

were  red  with  it.  Flint  took  the  Irishman  into  the 
bathroom  to  clean  up  a  little,  leaving  me  in  the 
kitchen.  That's  when  I  grabbed  the  bag  and  jumped 
into  the  dumb-waiter." 

He  paused,  rose  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
anxiously. 

"They'll  want  you  as  a  witness,  anyway,  won't 
they?"  Fenton  asked. 

"I  expect  they  will,  but  they  won't  have  me. 
They've  got  evidence  enough.  They'll  convict 
O'Shea  easily.  This  isn't  the  first  thing  they've 
got  on  him.  Why,  they're  after  him  now  for  that 
Courtenay  kidnapping  business,  and  that  was  sev 
enteen  years  ago!" 

Seventeen  years  ago!  Fenton's  mind  had,  more 
than  once  that  night  gone  back  to  O' Shea's  part  in 
his  own  childhood.  He  knew  he  must  have  been 
about  four  years  old  when  he  first  knew  O'Shea 
and  the  house  in  South  Boston.  Fenton  was  now 
twenty-one ;  he  made  a  rapid  subtraction,  and  trem 
bled  at  a  sudden  thought.  He  had  begun  to  suspect 
that  O'Shea  was  not  his  uncle — what  if  the  mys 
tery  were  at  last  to  be  explained !  He  tried  to  speak 
calmly,  but  his  mind  was  whirling  as  he  asked : 

"What  was  that  case?  I  never  heard  of  it." 


274  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it  while  we  wait,"  said 
Sproule-Elkhurst.  "It  was  certainly  a  curious  af 
fair.  The  story  of  a  'biter  bit/  you  know."  So, 
taking  a  position  where  he  could  look  out  of  the 
window,  he  began. 


THE   COURTENAY   KIDNAPING   CASE 

Seventeen  years  ago,  Mangus  O'Shea  was  a  petty 
crook  who  was  ready  for  any  odd  job  that  would 
bring  him  in  a  few  dollars.  He  had  begun  life  as 
a  plumber,  but  gradually  drifted  into  evil  ways  and 
had  already  done  a  two  years'  "stretch"  in  San 
Quentin,  California,  for  sneak-thieving.  After 
leaving  the  "pen"  he  came  east  where  his  face  was 
not  so  well  known  to  the  police,  and  worked,  off 
and  on,  at  his  trade,  trying  to  keep  straight.  You 
see,  he  was  one  of  those  uncertain,  half-way  char 
acters  whom  you  can  respect  neither  as  an  honest 
man  nor  as  an  out-and-out  crook  courageously  pit 
ting  his  wits  against  the  police.  His  face  was  ugly, 
red  eyes  and  little  black  teeth — a  mongrel  with  a 
mongrel's  temper.  He  was  pretty  generally  dis 
liked  in  South  Boston,  where  he  lived. 

Well,  he  picked  up  an  acquaintance  with  a  bunch 


THE   NORCROSS   APARTMENTS    275 

of  crooks  that  frequented  the  "Nucleus"  saloon,  on 
the  Point,  and  they  soon  had  him  back  in  the  game. 
He  was  quick-witted  enough ;  cunning,  rather  than 
clever,  though ;  a  good  man  to  do  their  dirty  work. 

It  was  about  this  time — let's  see,  in  '94,  it  must 
have  been — that  he  met  Pye.  "Lemon"  Pye  they 
used  to  call  him,  on  account  of  his  red  hair. 
"Lemon"  was  a  Nova  Scotian,  and  he  was  a  genius. 
Bold  and  clever  and  versatile  he  was,  a  big  man 
every  way.  He  had  a  big  body,  a  big  voice  and  a 
big  laugh — with  a  mind  that  could  bore  through 
things  like  a  gimlet.  "Lemon"  was  one  of  the 
finest  confidence  men  in  the  business,  and  he  put 
over  some  sensational  jobs  in  his  time.  He  had 
absolutely  no  moral  sense — he  believed  the  world 
was  his  oyster  and  he  opened  it.  He  would  have 
made  a  great  general,  if  he  had  had  the  chance. 

Well,  Pye,  "Lemon"  Pye,  tolerated  O'Shea,  be 
cause  the  Irishman  could  be  so  easily  teased. 
"Lemon"  would  sit  drinking  with  him,  chuckling 
at  O'Shea's  temper,  and  every  little  while  landing 
a  jab  that  would  make  O'Shea  writhe.  I  never 
saw  two  men  who  were  not  friends  fraternize  so. 
It  seemed  as  if  O'Shea  sought  "Lemon's"  company 
all  the  time,  always  hoping  to  get  even  with  the  big 


276  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

man.  But  try  as  O'Shea  would,  "Lemon"  always 
won,  and  O'Shea  grew  surlier  and  surlier;  which 
pleased  Pye  immensely. 

One  night  O'Shea  read  in  his  paper  that  a  mil 
lionaire  named  J.  O'H.  Courtenay,  down  in  Jersey, 
had  made  a  couple  of  millions  on  a  big  deal  in  cop 
per,  and  mentioned  it  to  the  big  fellow  who  was 
with  him. 

Pye  remarked  that  he'd  like  to  get  a  slice  of  that 
profit;  then  he  rolled  his  cigar  over  to  the  other 
corner  of  his  mouth  calmly  and  added  that  he  in 
tended  to  get  it,  too. 

"Why,  you  fool,"  said  O'Shea,  "you  don't  expect 
he  carries  it  around  with  him,  or  keeps  it  in  the 
dining-room  silver  safe,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  something  like  that,"  Pye  answered,  confi 
dently.  "I  happen  to  know  where  he  does  keep 
one  prize  piece  of  portable  property."  And  "Lem 
on"  rose  and  yawned  like  a  menagerie  lion. 

"I  suppose  you  think  you  can  con  him  out  of  his 
money,"  snarled  O'Shea.  "You'll  find  these  big 
chaps  know  that  game  themselves." 

"Well,  if  I  start  anything,  I'll  have  a  pretty  good 
argument  to  make  him  come  across,  O'Shea.  You 
ought  to  study  psychology.  But  you  can't  teach  a 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    277 

rat  mathematics."  He  grinned  down  into  O'Shea's 
angry  little  red  eyes,  chuckled,  and  walked  out. 

O'Shea  forgot  all  about  the  conversation  till  one 
day,  about  two  months  later,  he  picked  up  a  paper 
and  stared,  fascinated,  at  a  three-column  scare- 
head.  Courtenay's  little  four-year-old  son  Bruce 
had  been  kidnapped  and  there  was  the  devil  to  pay 
about  it. 

Of  course  you're  too  young  to  remember  the  af 
fair,  but  it  was  the  talk  of  the  country.  The  story 
ran  on  the  front  pages  of  the  newspapers  for  three 
weeks,  and  inside  for  at  least  two  months  more. 
Every  sheriff  and  policeman  in  the  country  was  try 
ing  to  get  the  reward.  Old  man  Courtenay  nearly 
beggared  himself  paying  for  detectives  and  the 
thousand  expenses  of  the  search. 

Now,  as  soon  as  O'Shea  read  the  news  he  made 
up  his  mind  that  Pye  had  the  child.  So,  having  in 
side  information,  and  a  few  hundred  dollars  laid 
up  against  a  rainy  day,  O'Shea  decided  to  have  a 
try  for  the  reward.  So  far,  so  good ;  but  what  had 
become  of  "Lemon?"  O'Shea  started  to  find  out. 

First  he  located  Mrs.  Pye  in  a  lodging  house  on 
Tremont  street,  Boston,  and  took  a  room  there. 
Then  he  began  to  watch  her  mail.  Three  days  after 


278  .FIND   THE   WOMAN 

he  moved  in,  he  noticed  a  letter  addressed  to  her,  on 
the  hall  stand.  He  sneaked  it  up  into  his  room, 
opened  it  with  a  knitting  needle,  and  read  this : 

"Am  holding  the  goods  for  a  rise.  Expect  to 
make  a  good  sale.  Add.  H.  C.  Stevens,  325  Duluth 
Place,  Chicago." 

O'Shea  grinned  and  patted  himself  on  the  back 
for  getting  ahead  of  Pye  at  last.  He  considered 
his  fortune  as  good  as  made.  He  resealed  the  en 
velope,  put  the  letter  back  on  the  stand  and  jumped 
on  to  the  first  train  for  Chicago.  No  police  assist 
ance  for  him.  He  knew  that  if  he  tipped  them  off 
they  would  collect  the  reward  themselves  and  give 
him  the  laugh.  What  he  had  to  do  was  to  locate 
the  kid,  and  then  wire  Courtenay  to  come  on. 

As  matters  stood  then  there  was  a  reward  of  five 
thousand  dollars  for  the  return  of  the  child.  Mr. 
Courtenay  had  offered  three  thousand,  the  City  of 
Orange  a  thousand,  and  the  police  a  thousand  more. 
It  was  well  worth  working  for.  O'Shea  was  jubi 
lant. 

He  found  that  the  address  given  in  Pye's  note 
was  that  of  a  small  family  hotel.  O'Shea  took  a 
front  room  and  interviewed  the  chambermaid  who 


THE   NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    279 

corroborated  the  note.  Mr.  Stevens  and  a  young 
boy  with  black  hair — not  red,  mind  you — had  a 
two-room  suite  on  the  floor  below.  O'Shea  spent 
three  hours  at  the  window  watching  the  street.  At 
about  four  o'clock  he  saw  "Lemon"  coming  in  with 
the  boy,  and  he  was  sure  of  his  quarry.  He  ran  out 
and  wired  Courtenay  to  come  on  immediately. 
When  he  returned  from  the  telegraph  office  he 
found,  from  the  chambermaid,  that  Mr.  Stevens  and 
his  pseudo  son  had  already  left. 

O'Shea  was  wild.  Not  only  had  the  boy  slipped 
through  his  fingers,  but  he  had  given  Courtenay  evi 
dence  against  himself,  and  he  might  be  followed. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  get  away  and  start  on 
a  new  search.  He  cursed  his  indiscretion  with  the 
chambermaid,  packed  up  his  valise  and  came  back 
to  Boston,  determined,  next  time  he  located  "Lem 
on,"  to  steal  the  child  himself.  Meanwhile,  Mr. 
Courtenay  had  raised  his  reward  to  five  thousand 
dollars,  making  seven  thousand  in  all. 

Mrs.  Pye  had  moved.  It  cost  O'Shea  fifty-odd 
dollars,  two  weeks'  time  and  a  lot  of  trouble  to  dis 
cover  her.  She  was  found,  finally,  in  Plymouth, 
where  she  was  living  alone  in  the  Samoset  House, 
as  Mrs.  Stevens.  O'Shea  made  the  acquaintance  of 


280  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

the  clerk,  posing  as  a  federal  secret  service  agent, 
and  finally  got  possession  of  a  letter  from  Pye,  giv 
ing  his  address  in  Detroit.  O'Shea  was  off  again, 
mad  and  tired  and  anxious. 

This  time,  when  he  got  to  the  address,  he  ran 
bang  into  Pye,  who  was  coming  out  the  door  alone. 
O'Shea  had  tried  to  disguise  himself  with  a  red  wig, 
some  court-plaster  patches  and  a  bandage,  but  his 
little  red  eyes  and  his  little  black  teeth  gave  him 
away.  "Lemon"  gave  one  look  at  him — "Lemon's" 
eyes  bored  in  like  a  corkscrew — and  he  chuckled. 

"Well,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  "was  you  look 
ing  for  me,  Mr.  O'Shea?"  He  was  no  more  afraid 
of  O'Shea  than  a  bull  would  be  of  a  puppy,  and  it 
made  O'Shea  furious. 

"I'm  looking  for  that  Courtenay  kid,"  said  the 
Irishman,  "and  you'd  better  let  me  in  on  the  deal, 
or  I'll  make  it  hot  for  you !" 

Pye  looked  him  over.  Pye  laughed  till  he  shook. 
"Oh,  you  can  have  the  kid  when  I'm  through  with 
him,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  you  wanted  him  so 
bad.  I'll  let  you  know  when  it's  your  turn."  And 
Pye  walked  off  as  cool  as  a  snowball. 

O'Shea  nosed  about  a  bit;  found  "Lemon"  was 
living  alone  in  the  house.  No  trace  of  Bruce  Cour- 


THE   NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    281 

tenay.  Next  day  he  got  a  clue  that  led  him  post 
haste  to  Minneapolis.  Nothing  doing.  It  was  hard 
work.  No  chance  for  him  to  get  his  linen  washed, 
economizing  with  his  food,  his  money  giving  out, 
hot,  tired,  mad — fighting  mad — but  more  and  more 
determined  to  get  that  boy.  From  Minneapolis  to 
Charleston,  in  a  smoking-car — he  couldn't  afford  a 
sleeper  now — and  there  the  trail  fizzled  out.  And 
meanwhile  he  was  reading  in  the  papers  that  the 
reward  was  raised  to  fifteen  thousand.  Sometimes 
he  almost  had  his  fingers  on  the  kid;  next  day  he 
was  miles  off  the  scent.  Why,  Pye  just  played  with 
him ;  it  was  a  game  of  hare  and  hounds. 

After  a  month  of  this  sort  of  thing,  O'Shea 
stumbled  against  a  woman  named  Lily  Dean,  Pye 
used  to  know.  Lily  said  he  had  gone  back  on  her, 
and  told  O'Shea,  weeping  into  a  lace  handkerchief, 
that  Pye  was  in  Washington  up  against  it,  and  out 
of  cash.  O'Shea  followed  up  the  tip,  and  found  it 
was  straight.  Pye  was  hiding  with  a  little  boy  with 
red  hair,  in  the  negro  quarter  of  town. 

O'Shea  pawned  his  vest,  his  watch  and  his  revolv 
er,  and  went  after  the  kid.  He  watched  his  chance 
till  Pye  left  the  house,  then  broke  into  his  room  and 
found  a  little  boy  crying  in  a  rocking  chair. 


282  FIND  THE   WOMAN 

O'Shea  went  wild.  He  not  only  had  the  kid,  but 
he  found  forty  dollars  in  bills  in  the  top  bureau 
drawer.  With  these  he  got  to  Wilmington,  took  a 
room  in  a  hotel,  and  wired  a  red  hot  message  to  Mr. 
Courtenay  again.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  to  search 
the  child  for  marks  of  identification.  The  kid  began 
to  talk  about  "Lily"  and  O'Shea  had  a  panic. 
Finally,  he  found  a  note  in  the  little  boy's  trousers' 
pocket.  It  read,  "Not  yet,  but  soon"  O'Shea 
caved  in,  and  cried.  It  wasn't  the  Courtenay  kid  at 
all,  but  some  boy  Pye  had  borrowed  for  the  purpose 
of  throwing  O'Shea  off  the  track.  Well,  that  broke 
up  what  was  left  of  O'Shea's  enthusiasm  for  the 
reward.  He  left  the  kid  in  the  hotel,  and  went  home 
stone  broke.  His  wife  was  away  in  Fitchburg  with 
her  sister,  who  was  ill,  and  O'Shea  sulked  about  the 
house,  hungry,  cold,  and  disappointed,  till,  in  de 
spair,  he  got  a  job  at  his  trade  and  tried  to  forget 
the  reward. 

Meanwhile  the  reward  had  been  increased  again 
till  it  stood  at  twenty  thousand  dollars.  O'Shea, 
knowing  Pye  had  the  child,  was,  of  course,  crazy  to 
use  that  information,  but  his  telegrams  to  Mr. 
Courtenay,  and  his  stealing  of  the  other  child  pre- 
yented  his  daring  to  use  what  he  knew. 


THE   NORCROSS   APARTMENTS    283 

Well,  as  I  said,  Pye  was  a  genius.  The  way  he 
collected  ransom  for  Bruce  Courtenay  has  never 
been  beaten.  Of  course  Mr.  Courtenay  was  nearly 
insane  by  this  time,  and  ready  to  do  anything  to  get 
his  son  back.  The  police  seemed  able  to  do  noth 
ing.  One  day  he  received  a  letter  accurately  de 
scribing  Bruce  and  offering  to  give  him  up  for  five 
thousand  dollars.  With  the  advice  of  his  detectives 
Mr.  Courtenay  decided  to  accept  the  bargain,  pay 
over  the  money  and  arrest  the  one  who  received  it. 

The  letter  directed  him  to  leave  the  money,  in 
thousand  dollar  bills,  tucked  into  the  cushion  of  a 
certain  easy  chair  in  the  public  parlor  of  a  New 
York  hotel,  at  a  certain  time.  This  was  done,  and 
the  chair  was  watched.  A  stylishly  dressed  young 
lady — Pye's  friend  Lily  Dean,  it  was — sat  down  in 
the  chair,  took  a  letter  from  her  bag,  read  it  calmly, 
then  rose,  and  walked  to  another  chair  and  sat 
awhile.  The  detectives  watched  her  till  she  left  the 
parlor.  Then  they  nabbed  her.  Of  course  she  pro 
tested  her  innocence,  but  in  spite  of  her  anger  she 
was  taken  to  a  room  and  searched.  No  money  was 
found  on  her,  and,  after  some  delay,  in  the  hope 
of  identifying  her,  she  was  discharged  from  cus 
tody.  D'you  see  how  the  trick  was  done  ?  She  had 


284  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

removed  the  money  from  the  first  chair,  gone  over 
to  the  second  and  hidden  it  there,  in  a  similar  place. 
Then,  during  the  excitement  of  her  arrest,  another 
person  had  gone  to  chair  number  two,  got  the  bills, 
and  made  off.  It  was  a  daringly  simple  plan  and 
succeeded  perfectly.  The  girl's  confederates  were 
never  traced.  The  money  was  obtained,  but  the  kid 
nappers  did  not  return  the  child.  No  doubt  they 
were  afraid  of  the  risk.  It  made  a  tremendous 
amount  of  talk  when  the  facts  were  published;  the 
whole  subject  became  prominent  in  the  papers  again. 

O'Shea  read  of  it,  of  course;  and  his  opinion  of 
"Lemon's"  cleverness  went  up.  He  was  consider 
ably  afraid,  too,  that  his  own  part  in  the  business 
might  be  traced,  and  kept  pretty  quiet.  He  was  des 
perately  hard  up  now,  and  kept  his  eyes  open  for  a 
means  of  raising  money  more  easily  than  by  work 
ing  for  it. 

His  wife's  sister,  meanwhile,  had  died.  He  had 
to  pay  the  funeral  expenses  and  send  his  nephew  to 
an  orphan  asylum.  O'Shea  was  not  happy,  these 
days. 

One  day  he  was  riding  in  a  Columbus  Avenue  car, 
in  Boston,  when  two  men  came  in  and  sat  down  be 
side  him.  They  were  discussing  something  ear^ 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    285 

nestly,  and  O'Shea,  always  with  his  ears  open  for 
news,  listened.  For  a  while  he  couldn't  make  out 
what  they  were  talking  about,  but  finally  it  devel 
oped  that  one  was  telling  of  a  basket  of  silverware. 
A  large  basket,  it  appeared,  fitted  up  in  compart 
ments,  containing  a  complete  assortment  of  solid 
silver  dining  plate.  This  sounded  good  to  O'Shea. 
He  listened  more  closely.  The  house,  one  said, 
was  vacant,  the  family  being  away  in  the  country. 

"Seems  to  me  it's  kind  of  dangerous  leaving  that 
silver  there  alone  all  night,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right ;  you  get  it  early  in  the  morning 
and  ship  it  down  to  Marblehead.  I  can't  bother  to 
stay  out  there  all  night,"  said  the  other. 

"Pretty  handy  for  burglars,  though.  Easy  to  get 
away  with.  All  packed  up  like  that." 

"Oh,  they  never  have  burglars  out  Brighton  way. 
It's  a  small  house  and  don't  look  like  they'd  ever  be 
anything  worth  stealing  there." 

"On  Harvard  Street,  is  it?  How'll  I  know  which 
house  it  is?" 

"Why,  it's  just  the  other  side  of  the  Brighton 
road,  toward  Allston  village.  Don't  you  remember 
that  little  yellow  house  with  the  stable  on  a  rise  of 
land  at  the  turn  of  the  road?" 


286  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Oh,  I  expect  I  can  find  it  all  right.  I'll  call  about 
seven  o'clock.  Where  is  it,  in  the  dining-room  ?" 

"Yep."  The  first  speaker  handed  over  a  house 
key.  "You  can't  miss  it.  Be  sure  and  have  it  in 
sured.  It's  all  sealed  up  and  addressed." 

The  two  men  got  off  the  car  and  O'Shea  grinned. 
He  decided  to  go  after  that  silver  himself  that  night, 
giet  it  home  and  melt  it  up  as  soon  as  he  could  get  a 
furnace.  He  could  easily  sell  it  at  one  of  the 
"fences"  he  knew. 

That  evening  he  hired  an  old  covered  wagon,  and 
drove  out  over  the  milldam,  and  out  the  Brighton 
road  to  Harvard  Street.  The  house  was  easily 
found.  O'Shea  left  his  wagon  outside,  slipped 
round  to  the  back  of  the  house  and  jimmied  the  din 
ing-room  window.  It  was  nothing  at  all  to  do.  He 
got  in,  found  a  huge  wicker  basket  tied  up,  sealed 
and  addressed,  as  had  been  described,  and  lifted  it. 
It  was  heavier  than  he  expected,  but  he  opened  the 
front  door  and  got  it  out  that  way,  though  it  was 
a  hard  job.  He  watched  till  he  was  sure  there  was 
no  one  passing,  hoisted  the  basket  into  his  cart  and 
drove  back  home  in  a  high  good  humor.  It  was 
two  o'clock  when  he  reached  the  little  side  street 
where  he  lived,  and  got  the  basket  into  his  house, 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    287 

and  called  his  wife.  She  was  anxious  as  he  was,  to 
see  the  swag.  They;  cut  the  ropes  and  threw  up  the 
lid. 

There,  resting  on  old  bed  quilts,  carefully  ar 
ranged  so  that  he  could  not  be  harmed,  was  a  child 
of  four  years  of  age  apparently  dead.  O'Shea  stared 
in  horror;  his  wife  nearly  fainted.  One  look  at  the 
child  told  the  story.  It  was  Bruce  Courtenay — the 
boy  O'Shea  had  spent  three  months  and  his  last  dol 
lar  trying  to  capture.  His  hair,  at  first  sight,  seemed 
black,  but  at  the  roots  it  showed  reddish,  proving 
that  it  had  been  dyed.  Around  his  neck  was  a  gold 
locket  set  with  a  star  in  diamonds,  pictures  of  which 
had  appeared  in  all  the  newspapers.  If  there  had 
been  any  doubt  about  the  boy's  identity,  the  note 
pinned  to  his  breast  would  have  settled  it.  It  was 
from  "Lemon"  Pye  and  said :  "You  can  have  him, 
now.  I'm  through  with  him.  L.  P." 

You  can  imagine  O' Shea's  feelings.  With  the 
hue-and-cry  after  Bruce  Courtenay,  it  was  like  re 
ceiving  a  present  of  a  stick  of  dynamite  with  the 
fuse  lighted.  Despite  the  fact  that  twenty  thousand 
dollars'  reward  had  been  offered  for  the  boy,  his 
presence  was  the  most  dangerous  thing  possible. 


288  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

How  could  O'Shea  ever  explain  how  he  had  found 
him?  He  could  not  confess  to  a  burglary — he  was 
already  in  none  too  good  repute  with  the  police — and 
his  movements  where  the  boy  had  undoubtedly  been 
could  probably  be  traced  if  he  disclosed  the  inform 
ation.  But,  worse  than  this,  what  if  the  boy  were 
dead  ?  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to  dispose  of 
the  corpse.  The  case  was  desperate.  O'Shea  sum 
moned  his  nerve,  took  up  the  boy,  and  found  that 
he  was  still  breathing,  but  in  a  deep  stupor.  At  all 
hazards  he  must  be  revived  if  it  were  possible. 

While  O'Shea  hurried  out  for  a  8octor,  Mrs. 
O'Shea  undressed  the  child,  put  him  to  bed  and  dis 
posed  of  the  basket.  It  was  two  in  the  morning 
when  the  doctor  arrived.  He  looked  at  the  boy,  and 
looked  again.  Then  he  turned  to  O'Shea. 

"Is  this  your  child  ?"  he  asked  sharply. 

Mrs.  O'Shea  answered,  quickly,  as  women  will 
in  an  emergency.  "It's  my  sister's  boy,  Doctor. 
She  died  last  week  and  we're  going  to  adopt  the 
poor  little  fellow.  Will  he  live,  d'you  think?"  She 
burst  into  tears. 

Well,  that  settled  it.  Luckily  she  had  talked  with 
her  neighbors  of  her  sister's  death,  and  they  all 
knew  of  the  boy.  The  O' Sheas  took  the  bull  by  the 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    289 

horns  and  made  the  best  of  a  pretty  bad  bargain. 
Bruce  Courtenay  became  Michael  O'Shea.  He  re 
covered  from  the  drugs,  had  his  head  shaved,  and, 
in  a  week  was  in  a  fair  way  to  grow  into  a  South 
Boston  tough. 

But  when  the  reward  was  again  raised  for  the  re 
turn  of  Courtenay's  son,  O'Shea  looked  at  his  wife 
and  sighed. 

"He's  worth  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  as  he 
stands,"  he  groaned,  "and  I  dassent  claim  one  cent 
of  it.  This  kidnapping  business  ain't  what  it's 
cracked  up  to  be.  You  can't  get  no  money  easy,  in 
this  world.  We'll  have  to  put  the  boy  to  work ;  he's 
a  bad  investment  for  them  what  can't  afford  him." 

This  thought  was  rubbed  into  him  well  by  "Lem 
on"  Pye  who,  fat  and  complacent  at  the  end  of  his 
victorious  campaign,  one  day  met  O'Shea  as  he  was 
going  to  work  with  his  soldering  iron  and  lead  pipes. 

"You  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  for  that  silver, 
O'Shea,"  he  said.  "We  had  bare  time  to  feed  the 
poor  kiddie  the  knock-out  drops  before  you  was  in 
at  the  window.  I  would  have  come  down-stairs  and 
helped  you  with  the  basket,  only  I  was  laughing 
that  hard  I  couldn't  move.  I  hated  to  part  with  the 
lad  for  I  was  growing  fond  of  him,  but  the  detec- 


29o  FIND  THE  WOMAN 

lives  was  getting  too  lively  for  me — and,  besides, 
you  wanted  him  so  bad  I  thought  it  was  a  shame 
not  to  let  you  have  him." 

Long  before  Sproule-Elkhurst  had  finished  his 
story,  Fenton,  or,  as  he  undoubtedly  must  begin  to 
call  himself,  Bruce  Courtenay,  had  gone  off  into  a 
reverie.  Was  he  Bruce  Courtenay?  There  could 
be  no  doubt  of  it.  Everything  tallied  with  what  he 
knew  of  his  own  history — and  the  evidence  of  the 
golden  locket  was  alone  sufficiently  convincing. 
What  it  could  mean  to  him,  in  the  future,  he  could 
not  guess;  but  it  kindled  his  imagination  and  his 
pride.  If  this  could  be  proved  he  would  be  no 
longer  the  obscure,  unknown  architectural  drafts 
man.  He  would  have  a  legal  name,  relatives,  and 
perhaps  money.  It  came  to  him  in  a  flash  that, 
above  all,  this  might  give  him  a  position  which 
would  enable  him  to  meet  Belle  Charmion  more 
easily.  He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  how 
ever;  he  was  not  yet  sure  of  Sproule.  There  were 
the  Brewster  jewels,  too,  to  be  accounted  for.  What 
had  become  of  them?  Should  he  still  have  to  fight 
for  them. 

Sproule,   who  had  given   another  long,   careful 


THE   NORCROSS   APARTMENTS    291 

look  out  of  the  window,  now  returned  and  inter 
rupted  Fenton's  day-dream,  by  a  light  touch  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Do  you  believe  I'm  straight?"  he  asked  seri 
ously. 

It  was  hard  for  Fenton  to  reply.  He  knew 
Sproule  for  a  pal  of  O'Shea's,  a  crook — and  perhaps 
worse.  Might  he  not,  in  spite  of  what  he  had  told, 
be  an  accomplice  to  the  murder,  as  he  was  undoubt 
edly  an  accessory  after  the  fact?  And  yet,  the  man 
also  had  candor  that  could  scarce  be  doubted. 
There  was  something  Fenton  liked  about  him;  he 
had  charm. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  Fenton  stammered.  "How 
do  I  know  you're  telling  me  the  truth?  You  say 
you  tried  to  queer  O'Shea's  job,  but  here  I  find  you 
with  him  right  in  the  game  all  through!" 

"I  think  I  can  prove  it,"  said  Sproule,  calmly. 
He  unbuttoned  his  coat,  drew  forth  a  soft  leather 
bag,  and  poured  from  it  a  glittering  collection  of 
jewelry,  sparkling  with  precious  stones,  upon  the 
floor. 

Fenton  stared.  For  the  third  time  that  night  he 
had  come  strangely  across  the  Brewster  jewels!  It 
seemed  impossible.  Despite  the  seriousness  of  the 


292  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

occasion,  he  had  to  smile,  as  at  some  grotesque  joke. 
It  seemed  that,  despite  all  his  blunders,  he  could  not 
lose  this  mysterious  treasure.  He  looked  up  at 
Sproule  in  wonder. 

"Will  you  take  this  stuff  back  to  the  Brewster 
house  ?"  Sproule  asked  quietly. 

Fenton  nodded,  still  staring  with  wonder.  Then 
he  added,  "I'll  try  it  again;  but  for  heaven's  sake 
explain  your  part  in  all  this !" 

"All  right,"  said  Sproule.  "I  will.  I  admit  that 
I  have  been  a  crook.  For  five  years  I  have  been  a 
member  of  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  desperate 
gangs  in  the  country.  But  I've  broken  away — or 
tried  to.  To-night,  if  I  succeeded,  was  to  end  it  all. 
Maybe  I  can  do  it  yet.  I  hardly  know  how  to  make 
you  believe  what  I  want  to  say.  If  you  only  knew 
my  wife  I  think  you  might  understand." 

"I  do  know  your  wife,"  said  Fenton.  "She  came 
into  your  apartment  at  the  Plaza  before  I  left.  I 
had  a  long  talk  with  her." 

"You  did  ?"  Sproule's  voice  trembled  with  excite 
ment.  "Did  she — but  of  course  you  couldn't  know 
» — she'd  never  tell  if  she  suspected — " 

"She  knows  that  you're  a  crook,"  said  Fenton 
quietly. 


THE   NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    293 

"Oh  God !"  Sproule  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Fenton  put  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder.  "See 
here,  old  man,"  he  said  kindly.  "If  you're  honest, 
if  you  want  to  be  straight,  the  best  thing  you  can  do 
is  to  go  right  to  her — if  you  can  possibly  get  away. 
She's  going  to  take  the  first  train  to  Philadelphia 
to-morrow.  You'd  better  meet  her  there." 

"Oh,  I  can't  face  her!    I  daren't!" 

"You  must.  You'll  find  she'll  forgive  you — she'll 
do  more  than  that — she'll  help  you  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf.  I  know,  for  she  has  said  so  to  me." 

Sproule  spoke  between  gritted  teeth.  "If  you 
knew  how  I  love  her,  you'd  believe  me.  My  love 
for  her  has  kept  me  in  hell  for  a  year  trying  to 
break  away  from  this  gang.  You  don't  know  what 
a  fight  it  has  been.  O'Shea  is  a  devil — he  has  it  on 
me  for  so  many  things  I've  done — in  the  past — that 
she  doesn't  know  about.  Oh,  I'd  have  done  my  time 
and  been  happy  enough  in  jail  to  get  away  from 
O'Shea,  but  I  couldn't  disgrace  her;  she  loved  me 
so — trusted  me  so.  I've  tried  and  tried  to  break 
with  him,  but  each  time  he's  pulled  me  back  into  the 
net,  threatening  to  expose  me.  It  was  no  use.  So, 
yesterday,  I  decided  to  leave  her.  If  I  was  caught, 
at  least  it  wouldn't  drag  her  name  into  it.  I  had  an 


294  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

idea  she  had  already  begun  to  suspect  me,  so  I  de 
cided  never  to  come  back  to  her,  and  let  her  think 
what  she  would.  Do  you  really  think  that  she'd 
give  me  a  chance  ?" 

"If  you'd  explain  a  matter  of  a  ruby  necklace,  I 
think  she  would." 

"Oh  God!  Did  she  tell  you  that?  That  was 
something  I've  almost  died  about,  since.  It  was  a 
horrible  thing  to  do,  but  I  was  distracted.  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  doing,  really.  I  knew.  I  had  to 
leave  her,  and  I  wanted  to  give  her  something  in  re 
membrance  of  me.  We  had  cleaned  up  a  house  in 
New  Haven — I  got  hold  of  this  necklace  out  of  the 
swag,  without  O' Shea's  knowing  it — and  I  gave  it 
to  her.  It  was  a  crazy,  horrible  thing  to  do,  I  see 
it  now — it  might  be  discovered  on  her  any  time — 
but  I  was  distracted,  I  tell  you.  I  didn't  think.  I 
only  knew  I  loved  her,  and  I  had  lost  her  for  ever. 
I  had  to  do  something." 

"That  necklace  has  been  her  curse,  but  you  can 
make  it  her  blessing  if  you  want  to,"  said  Fenton. 
"Go  to  her  and  she  will  tell  you  something  about  it 
— and  something  that  should  make  you  two  love 
each  other  more  than  ever." 

"I'll  try!"  said  Sproule.     "If  I  get  out  of  this 


THE    NORCROSS    APARTMENTS    295 

safe,  I'll  take  her  abroad  somewhere  and  begin  all 
over  again!" 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  by  this  time.  Fenton, 
cramped  and  stiff,  rose  and  walked  about  the  room 
and  looked  out  for  the  first  signs  of  dawn,  while 
Sproule-Elkhurst  reconnoitered  from  the  hall  door. 
After  fifteen  minutes  he  came  back. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  try  it,"  he  said.  "Good-by! 
And, — if  they  get  me — I  want  you  to  do  one  thing 
for  me." 

"I  know,"  said  Fenton.  "You  want  me  to  tell 
your  wife  that  you  had  tried  to  be  straight?" 

"For  love  of  her,"  Sproule  added.  Then  he 
wrung  Fenton's  hand  and  slipped  down  the  stairs. 

Fenton  watched  from  the  window,  saw  him  walk 
with  an  apparently  careless,  leisurely  stride  along 
the  street  toward  Broadway,  and  disappear  round 
the  corner.  Then  Fenton  brushed  his  silk  hat  lov 
ingly,  put  it  on,  buttoned  the  bag  of  jewels  inside 
his  waistcoat  and  walked  down-stairs. 


XII 
A   HARLEM    LODGING   HOUSE 


AND  HOW  HE  WAS  WELCOMED  BY  A  FRIEND  AND 

A  LETTER,  AND  HOW  HE  PROFITED  BY  EACH 

OF  THEM 

THE  sky  was  streaked  red  with  the  flush  of 
dawn  when  John  Fenton  emerged  from  the 
Norcross  Apartments  and  set  out  at  last  for  his 
home.  There  was  no  hurry  now,  he  had  no  further 
fear  of  pursuit.  O'Shea  and  Flint  were  in  custody, 
and  Sproule  had  proved  his  honesty.  So,  with  the 
leather  bag  of  jewels  buttoned  snugly  under  his 
waistcoat,  Fenton  decided  to  walk. 

He  had  much  to  think  over.  The  events  of  the 
past  night  passed  before  his  eyes  like  a  dazzling,  in 
credible  moving-picture  show,  but  ever  in  and  out 
of  its  fantastic  scenes  appeared  and  disappeared  a 
mysterious,  fascinating  heroine,  Belle  Charmion. 
Would  she  ever  re-enter  his  melodrama?  Some  in 
tuition  told  him  that  she  would — that,  in  some 

296 


A   HARLEM    LODGING   HOUSE     297 

strange  way  their  lives  were  entangled,  and  the 
threads  of  their  destinies  must  meet  again. 

The  fresh,  cool  air  revived  him  and  he  strode 
along  with  as  much  spirit  as  if  he  had  but  just 
awakened  from  a  restful  night.  As  the  sun  rose, 
it  grew  warmer;  there  was  a  touch  of  spring  in  the 
air.  It  sent  his  spirits  several  degrees  higher.  He 
grew  more  boyish,  and  swung  along,  whistling  a 
lively  march.  So  down  Broadway  boulevard  all 
the  way  to  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street, 
and  then  eastward. 

As  he  approached  his  boarding  house,  one  of  a 
row  of  dreary  looking  wooden  buildings  with  high 
stoops,  painted  each  one  a  separate  color,  lead, 
and  molasses  yellow,  and  brown,  he  saw,  with  sur 
prise,  that  some  one  was  sitting  on  the  front  steps, 
drinking  from  a  milk  bottle.  Who  was  it?  The 
figure  was  familiar,  and  something  about  the  jaunty, 
audacious  attitude  still  more  so.  Fenton  stopped  to 
watch.  The  man  rose  and  waved  a  newspaper.  It 
was  Jack  Richmond,  the  star  reporter  of  the  Item. 

Fenton's  heart  sank.  For  a  moment  he  was  in 
clined  to  turn  and  escape  rather  than  encounter 
this  persistent  news-gatherer.  He  feared  the  report 
er's  inquisition.  Once  on  the  scent  of  a  story,  Fen- 


298  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

ton  knew  well  enough  that  the  man  would  not  soon 
let  go.  But  Richmond  could  not  easily  be  evaded; 
Fenton  knew  that  well  enough,  too.  He  could  run 
and  he  could  fight  as  well  as  he  could  question.  Fen- 
ton's  momentary  indecision  settled  the  question,  at 
any  rate,  for  Richmond  came  running  up  before 
Fenton  could  flee. 

"Well,  by  Jove,  you've  decided  to  show  up  at 
last,  have  you?"  Richmond  called  jovially.  "I've 
been  waiting  two  solid  hours  for  you,  and  I'm 
nearly  frozen  stiff.  If  a  milkman  hadn't  happened 
past  I'd  have  been  starved  as  well.  Say,  you  seem 
to  have  gone  up  in  the  world  some,  old  man !  Some 
different  from  that  Highlander  costume  with  broken 
eggshells  for  stockings!"  And  he  tapped  Fenton's 
white  tie.  "Where  in  the  devil  have  you  been,  I'd 
like  to  know?"  He  took  Fenton's  arm  familiarly 
and  walked  toward  the  boarding  house. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  Fenton  asked.  "I  have 
as  good  a  right  to  ask  as  you."  He  tried  to  shake 
himself  loose,  but  Richmond  held  him  close.  "What 
are  you  chasing  me  for,  anyway?"  he  demanded 
sullenly. 

"Because  I  want  that  story,"  said  the  reporter. 
"The  jewel  robbery,  you  know." 


A   HARLEM    LODGING   HOUSE     299 

"Oh,  that  was  all  a  fake,"  Fenton  began. 

"Bosh!    But  how  about  that  locket?" 

Fenton  stopped  suddenly.  "Well,  so  far  as  that 
goes,  how  about  Belle  Charmion?  Who  is  she? 
Where  is  she?  What  do  you  know  about  her? 
Where  is  the  locket?  What  have  you  found  out? 
Where  did  you  go?  Where  can  I  find  her?" 

Richmond  laughed  and  laughed.  "Say,  you  ought 
to  be  a  reporter,  not  me !  You  could  beat  Li  Hung 
Chang  for  questions !  See  here,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  I'll  swap  you  story  for  story.  You  tell  me 
what  you've  been  up  to,  and  I'll  tell  you  where  I've 
been!" 

Fenton  hesitated.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't,  Rich 
mond.  You  see,  it  isn't  my  story — it  mustn't  get 
into  the  papers — it's  a  question  of  honor." 

"See  here,  old  man !"  Richmond  drew  him  down 
on  the  doorsteps.  "You  don't  seem  to  be  onto  this 
newspaper  game.  I'm  as  keen  for  news  as  any  one 
in  the  business,  but  I'm  a  gentleman  as  well,  and 
when  I  give  a  promise,  I'll  keep  it.  Not  a  word  will 
be  published  that  you  don't  consent  to.  If  you 
know  anything  about  the  ethics  of  the  profession, 
you  ought  to  know  that  any  information  is  safer 
with  a  good  newspaper  man  than  with  any  one  else 


300  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

in  the  world.  Why,  the  president  of  the  United 
States  tells  things  to  correspondents  in  Washington 
that  politicians  would  give  their  heads  to  know! 
And  that  confidence  has  never  been  violated  in  the 
history  of  journalism.  I'll  just  remark  that  I'm 
straight." 

The  reporter's  manner  put  Fenton's  mind  at  rest. 
After  all,  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  get  such  a 
man's  help  and  advice.  "All  right,"  he  said.  "Go 
ahead  first,  though.  Tell  me  about  Belle  Charmion." 

"Good.  It  isn't  too  much,  old  man,  but  here 
goes.  It's  this  way.  Early  this  forenoon  we  got 
the  tip  from  police  headquarters  that  a  man  named 
Gordon  Brewster  had  committed  suicide  in  his  house 
on  West  Seventy-second  Street.  There  was  some 
thing  funny  about  it,  and  I  was  sent  out  on  the 
story.  The  coroner  had  viewed  the  remains,  and 
he  had  had  the  body  removed  to  an  undertaker's 
place  on  Broadway  because  there  was  nobody  there 
in  the  house.  That's  the  first  queer  thing.  The 
caretaker  had  skipped  out  while  the  cops  were  there. 
The  only  relative  was  his  half-sister — your  beaute 
ous  friend,  Belle  Charmion.  What's  the  matter?" 

"Belle  Charmion  is  Gordon  Brewster's  half-sis 
ter?"  Fenton  cried. 


A   HARLEM    LODGING    HOUSE     301 

"Why  not  ?  Didn't  you  know  it  ?  .Why  shouldn't 
she  be?" 

Like  an  electric  shock  the  thought  swept  through 
Fenton's  mind — the  jewels  then  were  perhaps  Belle 
Charmion's,  stolen  from  her  by  her  half-brother. 
But  he  dared  not  speak  yet.  "Go  on !"  he  said,  but 
he  was  almost  too  dazed,  too  occupied  with  this  new 
light  on  the  mystery  to  listen  to  Richmond. 

"Well,"  said  the  reporter,  "Miss  Charmion  was 
missing.  Why?  At  first  I  scented  some  mystery, 
but  it  was  simple  enough.  She  and  Brewster  never 
did  get  on  very  well  together,  and  they  quarreled 
about  two  months  ago,  and  Miss  Charmion  went 
with  her  maid  to  the  Hotel  Plaza  and  took  a  suite 
there.  I  found  this  out  from  a  Harry  Hay,  who 
was  Brewster's  most  intimate  friend.  Hay  had 
heard  that  Miss  Charmion  was  interested  in  settle 
ment  work,  down  on  the  East  Side,  and  so  I  hiked 
down  to  see  my  friend,  the  'middle-class'  girl  I  told 
'you  about,  Mrs.  Petrovsky  (formerly  Miss  Bessie 
Baker),  for  a  tip  as  to  Miss  Charmion's  probable 
whereabouts.  Mrs.  P.  knows  the  whole  East  Side, 
especially  the  'uplifters'  connected  with  the  settle 
ment,  and  I  finally  caught  Miss  Charmion,  as  you 
saw.  Now  comes  the  funny  part.  You  saw  me 


302  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

meet  her.  I  began  to  speak  of  her  half-brother,  but 
before  I  had  a  chance  to  tell  her  what  had  happened, 
and  what  I  wanted,  she  asked  me  who  you  were!" 

"She  wanted  to  know  who  I  was?"  Fenton 
could  scarcely  believe  it. 

"Yes,  and  she  took  your  address  as  well!  I 
walked  along  with  her  and  we  talked  as  we  went 
She  said  she  was  in  a  great  hurry,  going  up-town, 
but  all  the  same  she  had  time  to  pump  me  about 
you.  Well,  I  knew  very  little  but  your  interest 
in  the  locket,  which  I  showed  her.  She  got  excited 
when  she  saw  it.  I  couldn't  understand  why,  but 
I  had  no  time  to  figure  it  out.  I  told  her  that  her 
half-brother  had  sent  me,  down  to  find  her,  and  he 
wanted  to  see  her  immediately.  She  said  that  was 
impossible ;  she  had  an  engagement  that  night —  go 
ing  up  to  a  reception  at  the  Morgans',  she  said. 
Lucky  I  caught  the  name.  Well,  I  didn't  want  to 
blurt  it  out  that  her  half-brother  was  lying  dead  in 
an  undertaker's  shop  on  upper  Broadway,  so  I 
thought  I'd  break  it  to  her  easy,  you  know,  let  it 
out  a  little  at  a  time.  So  I  walked  along,  and  she 
kept  asking  about  you.  We  went  down  the  subway 
entrance,  and  I  bought  two  tickets  just  as  a  train 
came  along.  We  ran  for  it;  she  had  just  time  to 


A   HARLEM    LODGING    HOUSE     303 

slip  in,  and  I  was  following  right  behind  her,  when 
a  big  fellow  came  along  behind  me  like  he  was  shot 
out  of  a  thirteen-inch  gun.  Bing!  He  bowled  me 
over  and  my  hat  fell  off.  Bing  again,  the  door  was 
shut  by  the  guard,  and  the  train  pulled  out.  What 
d'you  know  about  that?  Pretty  lumpy  work  for  a 
star  reporter,  eh?" 

"She  got  away?" 

"With  the  locket!" 

Fenton  stared  at  the  reporter  thoughtfully.  "And 
she  wanted  to  know  about  me?" 

"Do  you  wonder  I  wanted  to  find  you  again?" ' 

"So  you  haven't  seen  Miss  Charmion  since?" 
Fenton  inquired,  ignoring  the  remark. 

"You  wait.  I  telephoned  to  the  office  that  I  had 
fallen  down  on  the  story,  and  there  was  some  rough 
talk  from  the  city  editor.  He  said  he'd  try  to  locate 
her  somehow,  and  meanwhile  he  ordered  me  to  look 
up  a  girl  Gordon  Brewster  was  supposed  to  be  en 
gaged  to.  One  of  our  hotel  men  had  'phoned  in  that 
he  had  seen  her  in  the  King  William  Hotel,  where 
she  had  registered  as  Miss  Green.  That  looked 
funny,  too,  so  I  went  after  it.  Say,  I'd  like  to  have 
omitted  that."  He  passed  his  hand  across  his  fore 
head. 


304  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

Fenton's  heart  sank  with  foreboding.  He  re 
membered  the  last  glance  the  octoroon  had  given 
him — it  was  tragic  in  its  despair.  It  could  mean 
but  one  thing,  he  knew,  and  the  question  leaped  to 
his  lips. 
"Suicide?" 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  how  should  you  guess  that?" 
Richmond  demanded. 

"Oh,  I  knew  her.  Tell  me  about  it." 
"I  asked  for  her,  and  the  girl  'phoned  up.  No 
answer.  Well,  I  had  to  see  her.  They  rang  again  and 
again,  and  then  I  went  up  on  the  elevator  with  a  cab- 
driver  who  said  'Miss  Green'  had  cheated  him  out 
of  his  fare.  The  minute  I  reached  the  door  I 
smelled  gas,  and  suspected  what  had  happened.  I 
went  down,  got  the  hotel  detective,  we  went  back 
with  one  of  the  clerks,  and  they  smashed  the  tran 
som  and  put  a  boy  through.  Well,  I've  seen  dead 
bodies  enough;  I  ought  to  be  used  to  it.  But  she 
got  me,  some  way.  You  say  you  knew  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Fenton  quietly.    "She  was  a  wonder 
ful  woman,  I  think." 

"Yes.    I  wonder  if  Brewster  knew." 

"You  mean — that  she — was  not  white?" 

"For  God's  sake,  did  you  know?"  Richmond  de- 


A   HARLEM    LODGING   HOUSE     305 

manded.  "Nobody  else  ever  did,  so  far  as  I  can 
find  out,  in  the  wide  world!" 

"She  told  me  that  she  had  negro  blood,"  Fenton 
replied. 

"Yes.  Well,  some  people  might  have  thought  it 
merely  ridiculous,-— the  hotel  clerk  did — but  some 
how — she  did  have  a  fine  face — you  know — and  the 
expression  was  beautiful — exquisite — somehow — 
I  don't  know — it  made  me  feel  like  a  kid — the  old 
story — no  color  line  in  Heaven,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing — rich  and  poor  alike  in  His  sight — confound 
it,  I  tell  you,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  but  that, 
thank  God,  it  was  all  over  for  her — the  contempt, 
and  the  scorn  and  the — oh,  well,  everything!  No, 
I  couldn't  laugh  when  I  saw  that  pretty  blonde  wig 
twisted  off  her  head,  showing  the  nigger  kinky  wool 
underneath.  I  don't  know — it  was  a  piece  of  sym 
bolism,  I  suppose."  And  the  star  reporter  of  the 
Item,  in  his  embarrassment  at  such  sentimental  con 
fession,  delved  in  his  pocket  for  a  cigarette. 

Fenton  himself  had  too  much  to  think  about  to 
speak.  Richmond  lighted  his  cigarette  and  blew  out 
a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"Well,  I  wrote  the  story  and  sent  it  down  to  the 
office — there  wasn't  much  that  could  be  said,  and 


306  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

as  we  couldn't  find  out  anything  from  her  about 
Brewster  it  became  absolutely  necessary  to  get  hold 
of  Miss  Charmion.  Luckily  I  remembered  that  she 
said  she  was  going  to  some  reception  at  the  Mor 
gans'.  But  what  Morgan's?  D'you  know  that 
there  are  exactly  thirty-five  Morgans  with  residence 
telephones,  not  to  speak  of  those  in  apartment 
houses  whose  names  are  not  in  the  book?  Well,  I 
eliminated  about  twenty,  and  then  began  ringing  up 
the  other  fifteen.  It  was  after  twelve  that  I  found 
the  right  one,  and  had  a  talk  with  Miss  Charmion. 
I  had  to  tell  her,  right  out,  what  was  up.  You  can't 
mince  matters  much  over  a  wire.  Of  course  she 
was  terribly  agitated  to  hear  her  half-brother  was 
dead  while  she  was  at  a  reception,  and  she  hung  up 
before  I  could  ask  her  when  I  could  see  her.  I 
didn't  have  the  nerve  to  call  her  up  again  and  I  de 
cided  to  wait  till  this  morning  to  interview  her. 
Now,  Mr.  Fenton,  I'm  ready  to  listen  to  your 
yarn." 

"Let's  come  up  to  my  room  first,"  said  Fenton, 
and  he  opened  the  front  door  and  led  the  way  up  two 
flights  of  narrow  stairs,  past  alcoves  decorated  with 
dusty  plaster  casts,  along  smelly,  shabby  little  halls 
where  they  could  hear  lodgers  still  snoring,  to  a 


A   HARLEM    LODGING   HOUSE     307 

small  bedroom  on  the  third  floor.  As  he  threw  open 
the  door  he  noticed  a  note  on  the  floor  that  had  been 
pushed  under  the  crack.  He  stooped  and  picked  it 
up,  read  it,  then  handed  it  to  the  reporter.  "Well, 
what  d'you  think  of  that !"  he  said  in  surprise. 
Richmond  read  it  aloud: 

"  'Will  Mr.  John  Fenton  be  kind  enough  to  call 
at  No.  300  West  Seventy-second  Street  at  his  very 
earliest  opportunity,  and  greatly  oblige  Miss  Belle 
Charmion  ?' 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  thought  she  seemed  remark 
ably  interested.  I  suppose  she  wants  to  return  the 
locket." 

Fenton  shook  his  head.  "I'm  afraid  it's  more 
serious  than  that,"  he  said.  "By  Jove,  I  can  imagine 
what  she  thinks  of  me  this  time!  See  here,  Rich 
mond,  I've  got  to  tell  you  the  whole  thing  now,  any 
way.  And  you've  got  to  help  me  out.  She  wants 
to  see  me  because  she  thinks  I've  stolen  the  Brew- 
ster  family  jewels !" 

Richmond  jumped  off  the  bed  in  triumph.  "Aha, 
then  that  tale  of  yours  wasn't  a  fake,  after  all !"  he 
said.  "Well,  did  you  steal  them,  old  man?" 

For  a  moment  Fenton  hesitated,  studying  the  re- 


3o8  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

porter's  face.  In  it  he  saw,  with  all  its  sharpness 
and  eagerness,  a  rare  kindness  and  sympathy.  He 
felt  confidence  in  the  man ;  and  he  needed  a  friend. 
With  a  quick  gesture,  he  took  the  leather  bag  from 
its  hiding  place,  and  emptied  the  contents  upon  his 
table.  Out  rolled  the  jewels,  and  spread  in  a  glit 
tering  mass  before  the  reporter's  eyes. 

"There,"  said  Fenton  calmly,  "how's  that  for  cir 
cumstantial  evidence?" 

Richmond  gasped.  "But  I  thought  you  said  they 
had  been  stolen  from  you?" 

"Richmond,  you  may  not  believe  it,  I  can  hardly 
believe  it  myself,  but  I've  found  these  jewels  three 
times,  this  night,  and  lost  them  twice!"  Then,  as 
the  reporter's  brown  eyes  drew  together  in  an  ex 
pression  of  incredulity,  Fenton  began  with  the  stoiy 
of  the  eventful  evening.  He  told  of  his  visit  to  the 
fortune-teller's,  and  of  the  raid,  his  discovery  of 
the  octoroon  and  how  she  had  confided  the  jewels 
to  his  care,  his  escape  to  Scheffel  Hall,  and  the  stoiy 
she  had  told  him  there,  of  Gordon  Brewster's  death, 
how  she  and  Harry  Hay  had  carried  the  dead  body 
to  West  Seventy-second  Street,  and  of  their  subse 
quent  discovery  of  Brewster's  theft  of  the  jewels. 
Then  he  narrated  his  own  promise  and  attempt  to 


A   HARLEM    LODGING   HOUSE     309 

deliver  them,  and  his  failure.  The  description  of 
how  he  was  chloroformed,  robbed,  and  left  in  the 
pigeon-loft  brought  him  to  the  Liars'  Club,  where 
he  had  first  met  Richmond. 

"Ah,"  said  Richmond,  "that  restores  my  faith  in 
my  own  powers  of  observation.  I  was  sure  that 
first  tale  of  yours  was  true." 

"You  see  why  this  story  can  never  be  printed, 
though?"  Fenton  asked  anxiously. 

"I'm  not  a  cad,"  Richmond  replied  simply.  "But 
go  on.  That's  a  pretty  lively  start;  see  if  you  can 
keep  up  the  pace." 

Fenton  smiled.  "Keep  it  up!"  he  said,  "it  isn't 
over  yet !  I  won't  wake  up,  probably,  till  I  see  Belle 
Channion."  He  went  on  to  tell  of  his  visit  with 
Elkhurst,  alias  Sproule,  to  the  Hotel  Astor,  and  of 
Mrs.  Elkhurst's  appearance  and  story,  proving  her 
husband  to  be  one  of  the  gang  that  was  on  the  trail 
of  the  jewels.  Her  information  had  led  him  down 
town  to  the  St.  Paul  building,  where  he  discovered 
the  jewels  with  the  murdered  body  of  the  bogus 
Count  Capricorni. 

"By  Jove!"  Richmond  cried,  "there's  a  story, 
anyway!  I'll  wire  that  in  immediately  over  the 
'phone ;  there's  a  good  chance  we  can  get  a  scoop  on 


310  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

that  murder  for  the  first  afternoon  edition!"  and 
he  was  off  down-stairs  to  the  telephone  while  Fen- 
ton  restored  the  Brewster  jewels  to  the  velvet  bag, 
and  pored  over  Belle  Charmioirs  note. 

At  Richmond's  return  Fenton  completed  the 
night's  adventures  with  an  account  of  his  meeting 
Miss  Charmion  at  the  Morgans'  reception,  and  his 
afterward  innocently  handing  over  the  jewels  to  the 
very  gang  that  had  been  after  them.  Sproule-Elk- 
hurst's  escape  and  his  confiding  of  the  jewels  again 
to  Fenton's  care,  finished  the  narrative. 

"And  now/'  he  concluded,  "what  am  I  to  do?  I 
must  return  the  jewels  to  Miss  Charmion,  immedi 
ately,  of  course.  But  she  will  have  to  know  that  her 
half-brother  stole  them.  I  wish  I  could  spare  her 
that,  for  the  sake  of  that  poor  girl  who  has  just 
committed  suicide." 

Richmond  thought  it  over.  "Let's  see,"  he  be 
gan.  "You  say  that  the  caretaker,  Flint,  discovered 
the  safe  door  open.  Did  he  lock  it? — that's  the 
question.  He  may  have  just  shut  it,  without  lock 
ing  the  combination,  and  so  it's  possible  for  us  to 
open  the  door.  I  don't  say  its  probable,  but  it's 
worth  trying.  See  here.  Suppose  I  go  with  you 
to  see  Miss  Charmion — I've  got  to  talk  with  her 


A   HARLEM    LODGING   HOUSE     311 

anyway,  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  about  it.  We'll 
just  wait  our  chance.  It  may  come,  or  it  may  not! 
At  any  rate,  you  can  trust  me!"  He  grasped  Fen- 
ton's  hand  and  shook  it  warmly. 

"But  if  Miss  Charmion  should  know  the  jewels 
are  gone?  She  may  have  looked  in  the  safe  al 
ready,"  said  Fenton. 

"That's  unlikely.  Why  should  she  suspect  any 
thing?  She's  too  much  disturbed,  probably." 

Fenton  pointed  to  the  note;  "She's  not  too  dis 
turbed  to  write  to  me,  at  any  rate!  What  else 
would  she  want  to  see  me  for?" 

"The  locket,  of  course!"  said  Richmond. 
"There's  some  mystery  there.  You'd  better  tell  me 
something  more  about  it." 

Fenton  briefly  sketched  his  own  remarkable  biog 
raphy — his  life  with  the  O' Sheas,  and  later  with 
Dr.  Hopbottom.  Finally  he  mentioned  Sproule's 
story  of  the  Courtenay  kidnapping  and  his  own 
memory  of  the  little  girl  on  the  ferry-boat. 

"That's  it!  You  are  Bruce  Courtenay,  and  that 
little  girl  was  Belle  Charmion,  of  course — and  she 
suspects,  somehow,  who  you  really  are!  By  Jove, 
let's  hurry — it's  eight  o'clock.  She'll  surely  be  up 
by  this  time.  I  want  to  see  the  denouement !" 


312  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

Fifteen  minutes  afterward,  Fenton  having 
plunged  into  a  cold  bath  and  changed  his  evening 
clothes  for  his  own  modest  business  suit,  the  two 
young  men  set  out,  blithe  and  enthusiastic,  for  West 
Seventy-second  Street.  Richmond  discoursed  upon 
the  events  of  the  night,  and  the  material  he  would 
find  therein  for  stories  for  the  Item  without  violat 
ing  the  confidence  of  the  dead  octoroon. 

Fenton  did  not  listen.  His  thoughts  were  only 
of  Belle  Charmion,  whom  fate,  after  having  tossed 
across  his  path  so  many  times,  was  perhaps  now  pre 
paring  to  link  still  more  closely  to  his  life.  He  had 
gone  far  with  his  emotions  that  night,  and  now  he 
found  himself  thinking  of  her  as  actually  his.  What 
else  could  mean  that  mysterious  attraction  he  had 
felt  when  he  first  saw  her  portrait? — at  the  thrill 
the  first  sight  of  her  gave  him? — his  agitation  at 
trie  first  sound  of  her  voice?  Belle  Charmion!  The 
name  rang  in  his  ears  like  a  bell.  Why,  it  seemed 
as  if  he  had  known  her  always!  It  seemed  as  if, 
when  he  saw  her,  words  would  be  unnecessary — as 
if  she,  too,  must  know  that  they  two  were  made  for 
one  another!  And  so  he  walked  as  if  on  air.  Rich 
mond's  talk  had  turned  to  base-ball  and  theaters. 
Fenton  heard  not  a  word, 


XIII 
THE   BREWSTER   MANSION 

IN  WHICH  IS  EXPLAINED,  AT  LAST,  HOW  AND  WHY 

BELLE  CHARMION  WAS  SO  UBIQUITOUS  AND  THE 

REASON  SHE  OFFERED  A  REWARD  FOR  A 

MISSING  FIANCE 

THEY  reached  the  house  and  rang  the  bell. 
Fenton,  expecting  a  maid  to  answer,  was  com 
posing  his  mind  to  wait  in  excited  suspense  the  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes  that  would  probably  elapse  before 
Miss  Charmion  should  appear,  looked  up  suddenly, 
to  find  her — the  very  girl  of  his  dreams — at  the 
opened  door.  He  turned  white.  Belle  Charmion 
blushed  vividly.  The  two  might  have  stood  there 
staring  at  each  other  indefinitely,  had  not  the  re 
porter,  smiling  at  their  embarrassment,  taken  off 
his  hat,  and  introduced  John  Fenton. 

She  looked  at  him — how  she  looked  at  him! — 
as  if  he  were  a  ghost — but  recovering  her  equanim 
ity  before  he  did,  she  graciously  invited  the  two 
men  into  the  back  parlor. 

313 


314  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"You'll  pardon  my  surprise,  Mr.  Fenton,"  she  ex 
plained,  "but  I  hadn't  expected  to  see  you  so  soon. 
Indeed,  I  had  sent  my  maid  for  you,  only  just 
now!" 

Richmond  spoke  before  Fenton  could  answer. 
"I'm  sure  you  must  want  to  see  Mr.  Fenton  alone," 
he  said.  "Suppose  I  wait — in  the  dining-room." 
He  gave  a  glance  at  Fenton,  for  the  reporter  had 
the  bag  of  jewels  ready  under  his  overcoat. 

"Oh,  I  have  nothing  I'm  not  willing  for  you  to 
hear,  Mr.  Richmond,"  she  said.  "Indeed,  if  I'm  not 
mistaken,  it  may  give  you  a  good  story !" 

Mr.  Richmond  reluctantly  sat  down,  and  Fenton, 
still  beauty-struck,  and  dumb,  still  feasting  his  eyes 
on  Belle  Charmion,  followed  his  example. 

She  turned  to  him  gravely.  "Mr.  Fenton,"  she 
said,  "you  have  no  doubt  wondered  why,  at  such  a 
time  as  this,  with  my  half-brother  lying  dead,  I 
should  ask  you,  a  perfect  stranger,  to  come  here  to 
see  me." 

Fenton  tried  to  speak.  The  words  "a  perfect 
stranger"  hurt  him  keenly.  But  she  went  on. 

"The  fact  is,  that  if  what  I  suspect  is  true,  finding 
you  is  almost  as  important  to  me  as  losing  my  half- 
brother.  As  to  him,  I  need  only  say  that  there  was 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        315 

never  much  love  lost  between  us.  I  could  never 
either  like  or  respect  him.  But  he  is  dead — I  need 
not  enlarge  on  my  reasons.  When  my  mother  mar 
ried  Mr.  Brewster  it  was  a  great  blow  to  me,  and  I 
have  never  reconciled  myself  to  it.  After  she  died, 
a  year  ago,  I  knew  that  it  would  not  be  possible  for 
me  to  keep  even  the  semblance  of  a  friendship  with 
Gordon  for  long.  As  you  may  know,  two  months 
ago  I  left  this  house  to  live  at  the  Plaza  Hotel,  and 
I  have  scarcely  seen  Gordon  Brewster  since." 

"Miss  Charmion,"  Fenton  said,  at  last  finding  his 
tongue,  "before  you  go  on  I  ought,  I'm  sure,  ex 
plain  why,  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  I  was  pretending 
to  be  some  one  else.  Really,  it  was  with  the  best  in 
tentions — " 

She  laughed.  "Oh,  I  rang  up  Marguerite  Mor 
gan  and  asked  about  you.  She  explained  all  that, 
and  I  understand.  What  I  want  more  to  understand 
is  what  you  know  about  this  little  ornament." 

She  handed  him  the  golden  heart-shaped  locket 
set  with  the  diamond  star  which  he  had  tried  to  get 
from  the  cab-driver.  "When  I  met  you  at  the  Hotel 
Astor,"  she  said,  "I  was  going  to  ask  you  then ;  but 
I  feared  I  had  made  a  mistake.  You  see,  you  were 
dressed  in  gray  tweed,  while,  only  an  hour  before, 


3i6  FIND  THE   WOMAN 

I  had  seen  you  in  a  brown  coat  and — overalls." 
Her  eyes  twinkled.  "I  would  have  asked  you  at 
the  Morgans',  in  spite  of  your  having  been  intro 
duced  to  me  as  the  Count  Capricorni — but  that  tele 
phone  message  left  me  no-  time.  It  was  lucky  that 
Mr.  Richmond  had  given  me  your  address,  earlier 
in  the  evening.  Now,  that  locket  has  a  history.  I 
scarcely  dare  ask  you  what  you  know  of  it,  whether 
it  is  yours  or  not — but  if  it  is, — I  have  much  to  tell 
you.1' 

"Miss  Charmion,  I  believe  that  is  my  locket," 
said  Fenton,  examining  it  excitedly.  "At  least,  I 
remember  seeing  it  when  I  was  about  eight  years 
old,  in  the  possession  of  a  man  named  O'Shea, 
whom,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  kidnapped  me. 
And,  if  that  is  true,  my  real  name  is  Bruce  Courte- 
nay!" 

Miss  Charmion  gazed  at  him  with  heightened 
color,  her  lips  parted,  her  face  strangely  expressive. 
She  had  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  was 
just  about  to  speak  when  she  was  interrupted  by  a 
long  ring  at  the  front  door  bell,  and  hurriedly  ex 
cusing  herself,  saying  that  it  must  be  her  maid  re 
turning,  she  left  and  went  into  the  hall. 

"Now's    my    time,    Fenton!"    cried    Richmond, 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        317 

jumping  up.  "I've  located  the  dining-room,  back 
there.  I'm  going  to  have  a  look  at  that  safe !"  And 
he  darted  to  the  doorway,  gave  a  look  down  the 
hall,  and  disappeared  toward  the  rear  of  the  house. 

Fenton,  for  a  few  minutes  paced  up  and  down 
nervously.  It  was  annoying  to  have  the  conversa 
tion  interrupted  just  at  the  moment  when,  appar 
ently,  he  was  to  find  out  whether  his  suspicions 
about  his  own  identity  were  correct,  when  he  was  to 
find,  too,  what  secret  connected  him  with  Belle 
Charmion.  But,  if  Richmond  could  succeed  in  re 
placing  the  jewels  in  the  safe  without  her  knowing 
it,  the  accident  was  well-timed.  Then,  as  he  listened 
for  her  return,  he  heard  a  strangely  familiar  voice, 
which  rose  steadily  higher.  He  went  to  the  door 
to  hear  more  clearly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  have  made  an  incip 
ient  octagon  of  myself  running  around  this  holo- 
gastric  town  for  nothing?"  some  one  thundered, 
and  Fenton  was  amazed  to  recognize  it  as  Doctor 
Hopbottom. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Miss  Charmion. 

"But,  by  the  pancyclic  septuagint,  wasn't  it  on 
your  business  ?" 

"It's  too  bad  you  were  forestalled." 


318  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"Forestalled!  D'you  mean  you'd  take  the  word 
of  a  seventeen-cent  hypercorrosive  blastoderm  like 
that  brompropionic  reporter  rather  than  mine?" 

Miss  Charmion  burst  out  laughing.  "You're  a 
day  late,  Doctor.  But  I'm  very  busy  at  present,  and 
I'll  have  to  say  good  morning !" 

"Well,  by  Zarathrustra,  you'll  have  to  give  me 
that  superhyphenated  locket,  or  pay  for  it,  then !" 

"I  think  I  shall  have  no  trouble  in  proving  that  it 
is  my  property — or  that  of  Mr.  Fenton,"  said  Miss 
Charmion  calmly.  "And  so,  unless  you  wish  me  to 
call  him,  or  his  friend,  I  really  think  you  had  not 
better  stay." 

Fenton  appeared  in  the  hall  at  the  same  moment. 
Doctor  Hopbottom  took  one  look  at  him  and  put  on 
his  hat.  Then  he  opened  the  front  door  and  shook 
his  bony  finger  at  his  former  ward. 

"You'll  come  to  a  helciform  end,  sir!"  he  de 
claimed;  "you  see  if  you  don't!  I  knew  you  were 
nothing  but  a  semi-colonial  anthropoid  anacoluthon 
when  I  first  saw  you!  Good  day,  Miss  Charmion. 
Good  day !  The  next  time  I  spend  my  time  looking 
up  a  post-impressionistic,  Pliocene  friend  of  yours 
I'll  jimpriculately  well  know  it!"  And  he  stalked  out 
of  the  door  and  slammed  it. 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        319 

At  that  moment  Richmond  touched  Fenton  on 
the  shoulder.  "Great!"  he  whispered.  "Just  as  I 
thought — the  door  of  the  safe  was  shut  but  not 
locked.  The  jewels  are  safe." 

"At  last!"  Fenton  replied.  "I  only  hope  I'll 
never  have  to  see  them  again."  They  moved  back 
from  the  doorway  just  as  Miss  Charmion  returned. 

"Well,  it  seems  that  wasn't  your  locket  after  all !" 
she  cried,  smiling.  "Look  at  this!"  And  she  held 
out  one  exactly  similar.  "Where  in  the  world  did 
that  extraordinary  old  doctor  get  it,  do  you  sup 
pose?" 

"I  see,"  said  Fenton.  "He  must  have  got  it, 
somehow,  from  O'Shea.  But  how  in  the  world 
should  he  look  it  up?" 

"Oh,  that's  simple,"  Miss  Charmion  volunteered. 
"Don't  you  know  that  for  a  year  I  have  offered  a 
thousand  dollars  reward  for  you?"  She  blushed 
prettily,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

Richmond  groaned  whimsically.  "I  wish  I'd 
known  that !"  he  said. 

Miss  Charmion  turned  to  him.  "Oh,  it  doesn't 
matter.  You  are  the  one  who  brought  him,  and  the 
money  is  yours.  I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  for 
what  you've  done,  Mr.  Richmond.  Isn't  it  strange 


320  FIND    THE   WOMAN 

that  when  I  first  saw  Mr.  Fenton — or,  of  course,  I 
must  say  Mr.  Courtenay  now — I  had  an  intuition 
that  he  was  the  man  I  wanted  to  find  ?  Then,  when 
I  saw  the  locket  and  heard  what  you  told  me 
of  it,  Mr.  Richmond,  I  was  sure." 

"But,"  interrupted  Fenton,  "would  you  mind  tell 
ing  me  why  you  were  so  anxious  to  find  me?  I'm 
dazed.  I  know  well  enough  why  I  wanted  to  find 
you,  but — " 

"Do  sit  down,  and  I'll  begin  at  the  beginning/' 
said  Miss  Charmion.  "I  don't  mind  Mr.  Richmond's 
hearing  it,  for  there's  no  reason  why  this  shouldn't 
be  known." 

They  took  chairs  near  her  and  she  began :  "My 
mother,  then  Mrs.  Charmion,  and  yours,  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  were  great  friends.  Well,  you  and  I 
were  born  on  the  same  day.  Twins,  so  to  speak. 
We  were  brought  up  together  as  near  neighbors  and 
friends,  that  is,  till  we  were  four  years  old.  That 
scene  you  have  described  on  the  ferry  boat  I  recall 
perfectly.  You  see,  we  each  had  a  locket  like  these ; 
and  it  was  mine  you  snatched  away  from  me.  In 
deed,  you  had  it  when  you  were  kidnapped,  the  same 
day ;  and  that  is  the  one  Dr.  Hopbottom  has  so  mi 
raculously  restored  just  now.  You  see,  there  seems 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        321 

to  have  been  some  queer  fate  all  through  it — we 
couldn't  be  separated,  in  spite  of  everything.  Well, 
your  disappearance  was  a  terrible  thing.  Your 
mother  became  ill,  and  she  really  died  as  a  conse 
quence  of  the  shock  and  the  horror  of  it.  Your 
father  spent  almost  every  cent  he  had  in  trying  to 
find  you — but  from  the  day  you  were  lost  nothing 
was  ever  heard  by  which  any  one  could  trace  you. 
You  simply  disappeared  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Your  father  died  a  few  years  afterward,  a  broken 
down  old  man,  entrusting  the  search  to  my  father 
and  mother.  Until  my  own  father  died  the  search 
was  never  abandoned.  Then  my  mother  married 
Mr.  Brewster,  and  the  thing  was  given  up  as  an  in 
soluble  mystery.  But  I  year  ago  I  determined  to  try 
again,  and  I  offered  the  reward  in  hopes  that,  by 
this  time,  some  one  might  be  willing  to  give  infor 
mation." 

"But,  Miss  Charmion,"  Fenton  interrupted,  "it 
was  fine  of  you  to  do  that;  but  what,  really,  did  it 
matter  whether  I  was  found  or  not,  at  this  late  day? 
I  don't  quite  see !" 

"Ah!"  she  said,  smiling.  "I  haven't  told  you  the 
main  point.  Will  you  come  into  the  dining-room 
for  a  moment  ?"  She  rose  and  led  the  way. 


322  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

Fenton  and  Richmond  exchanged  a  glance  of  sur 
prise,  and  followed  her,  wondering  what  was  to 
come  next.  Miss  Charmion  went  to  the  safe  and 
began  to  turn  the  combination.  In  a  moment  she 
threw  open  the  door  and  looked  in. 

"Why,  how  funny!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  drew 
out  tHe  leather  bag.  "Oh,  I  suppose  Gordon  was  in 
tending  to  take  it  to  the  safe  deposit  vaults.  He 
probably  wanted  to  economize  room  here.  But  how 
extraordinarily  careless !"  She  rose  and  handed  the 
bag  of  jewels  to  Fenton. 

For  the  fourth  time  within  twelve  hours  then,  he 
received  this  astonishing  collection  of  precious 
stones.  Each  time  had  been  sensational,  each  time 
had  been  unlooked-for,  each  time  had  been  more 
dramatic  than  the  last.  This  time  capped  the  cli 
max.  Amazed  and  dazed,  he  found  no  words  to 
express  his  wonder.  He  stood,  holding  the  bag, 
looking  at  Miss  Charmion  stupidly. 

"They  are  yours !"  said  Belle  Charmion. 

He  could  only  repeat,  "Mine?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "I  told  you  that  your  father 
spent  almost  his  last  cent  on  the  attempt  to  trace 
you,  but  these  jewels  were  your  mother's,  and  she 
wished  them  kept  in  case  you  should  be  found.  But, 


THE   BREWSTER    MANSION        323 

despairing  of  that,  she  directed  in  her  will  that,  if 
you  should  not  be  found  by  the  time  I  (and  of 
course  you)  was  twenty-one  years  old,  that  they 
should  become  mine.  Well,  I  am  twenty-one  to-day 
— and  so  are  you.  It  is  our  birthday!"  She  looked 
at  him  with  laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say,"  Fenton  cried,  "that 
you  offered  a  thousand  dollars'  reward  for  me,  so 
that  you  might  not  come  into  possession  of  these 
jewels?" 

She  nodded  gravely.    "Why  not?" 

It  was  all  he  could  do  to  prevent  himself  rushing 
to  her  and  taking  her  in  his  arms.  He  knew  now, 
though  he  had  always  felt  intuitively  what  sort  of 
woman  she  was,  how  fine  and  how  loyal.  To  dis 
cover,  also,  what  old  bond  connected  them  thrilled 
him.  It  gave  him  a  claim  on  her  affection,  a  right 
to  her.  It  explained  and  justified  the  romantic  at 
traction  she  had  had  for  him;  it  made  reasonable 
and  sound  what  might  otherwise  be  distrusted  as  a 
too  picturesque  love-at-first-sight.  But  did  she  feel 
that,  also?  He  must  find  out.  Richmond's  pres 
ence  embarrassed  him.  He  gave  the  reporter  an  ap 
pealing  glance.  Richmond  was  no  fool.  He  arose 
immediately. 


324  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"If  you  don't  mind  my  having  this  story,  Miss 
Charmion,"  he  said;  "it's  really  news,  you  know, 
and  mighty  romantic." 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  replied. 

"Then,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  go  into  your  li 
brary  and  begin  it.  I  can  get  any  details  I  want 
later,"  and  with  a  wink  to  Fenton  he  left  the  room. 

Fenton  could  not  realize  that  the  wealth  repre 
sented  by  the  jewels  was  now  his.  He  dared  not 
estimate  their  value ;  he  only  knew  that  he  was  now 
rich,  that  his  future  was  assured.  Even  this,  how 
ever,  did  not  excite  him.  There  was  something  far 
more  important,  far  more  precious,  far  more  ro 
mantic,  agitating  him.  His  mind,  as  well  as  his 
eyes,  were  too  full  of  Belle  Charmion.  She  seemed 
melting — as  if  she  herself  could  not  longer  resist 
the  power  which  had  for  so  long  been  drawing  them 
together.  He  glanced  at  her,  and  she  answered 
without  a  word.  It  made  him  tremble,  but  he  dared 
not  quite  believe.  It  seemed  audacious  to  risk  his 
happiness  upon  so  subtle  a  sign,  yet  in  his  heart  he 
knew,  as  well  as  if  she  had  spoken  aloud,  that  she 
was  his,  that  it  would  be  grotesquely  impossible  for 
her  to  be  any  other's.  So,  trepid,  nervous,  his  cour 
age  growing  momentarily,  he  watched  her  beautiful 
expressive  face,  saw  it  soften  as  she  looked  at  him. 


THE    BREWSTER   MANSION        325 

It  was  Belle  Charmion  who  first  broke  the  silence. 
"I  haven't  told  you  of  one  strange  thing,"  she  said 
softly,  as  if  afraid  to  speak  aloud.  "Last  night  I 
felt  queerly.  I  had  a  sort  of  intuition  that  some 
thing  was  about  to  happen.  It  was  the  eve  of  my 
birthday,  and  I  knew  that  to-morrow,  if  you  were 
not  found,  the  jewels  would  be  mine.  I  didn't  want 
them;  it  was  hateful  to  me  to  take  them.  Well,  I  went 
— I  wonder  if  you  can  understand  just  why — to  a 
fortune  teller.  She  told  me  some  strange  things 
about  myself — and  about  you—  She  paused  and 
blushed. 

"Was  it  Madame  Oswald  ?"  Fenton  asked  impetu 
ously. 

Miss  Charmion  nodded,  astonished  that  he 
should  know. 

The  fortune  teller's  prediction  leaped  into  Fen- 
ton's  mind.  He  was,  she  had  said,  to  marry  a  girl 
with  the  initials  "B.  C." — and  marry  with  money, 
and  now—  "Did  she  know  your  name?"  he  asked 
suddenly. 

She  looked  up,  a  little  pale  with  emotion.  "No. 
But  I  remembered  afterward  that  I  had  a  shopping 
bag  with  my  monogram  on  it — perhaps  that's  how 
she  got  my  initials  so  mysteriously." 

Fenton  smiled,  reached  over  and  now  boldly  took 


326  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

her  hand.  "I  think  I  know  what  she  said  of  me," 
he  said.  "She  said  it  to  me,  too.  And  I  hope  it  will 
come  true.  So,  now  that  I  have  found  the  answer 
to  the  question  that  has  been  in  my  mind  so  persist 
ently  for  twelve  hours — " 

"What  question?"  she  asked  wonderingly.  She 
did  not  withdraw  her  hand. 

"The  question,  'Who  is  Belle  Charmion?'  " 

She  drew  away  her  hand  and  jumped  to  her  feet. 
"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  haven't  told  you  the  strangest 
part  of  it  all  yet !  I  didn't  want  to  speak  of  it  before 
your  friend,  Mr.  Richmond.  But  you  can  never  an 
swer  that  question  till  I  have  told  you !" 

"What?"  he  exclaimed.  "Surely  you  are  Belle 
Charmion,  aren't  you?"  He  looked  at  her  in  amaze 
ment. 

"Sit  down,"  she  answered.  "I  want  to  tell  you  a 
story — a  story  that  you  ought  to  know."  And,  re 
seating  herself,  she  began  the  tale. 

REASON  VERSUS  INSTINCT 

I  don't  know  exactly  how  it  happened — the 
mix-up  of  two  babies  that  led  to  the  queerest  year 
two  mothers  ever  had,  your  mother  and  mine.  I 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        327 

know  only  that  they  were  at  the  same  hospital,  and 
that  we  were  born  at  the  same  time,  almost  the  same 
minute,  and  that  the  place  caught  fire  before  we  were 
well  into  the  world.  The  patients  were  bundled  out 
in  blankets,  and  there  was  a  tremendous  excitement 
everywhere.  When  the  two  babies  were  brought 
out  to  the  two  mothers,  lying  in  cots  on  the  lawn, 
that  May  night,  it  occurred  for  the  first  time  to  the 
nurse  who  brought  them  that  she  had  no  idea  which 
child  belonged  to  which. 

You  can't  imagine  anything  funnier,  or  any 
thing  at  the  same  time  more  tragic  as  well.  One 
baby  was  a  boy  and  one  a  girl ;  but  which  was  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  child  and  which  was  Mrs.  Charmion's 
nobody  there  could  tell. 

If  that  nurse  had  realized  the  importance  of  the 
situation,  or  had  thought  of  it  a  moment  sooner, 
she  would  undoubtedly  have  decided  the  question 
for  herself,  taken  the  babies  and  delivered  them  as 
chance  would  have  it,  and  no  one  would  ever  have 
known.  But  she  hesitated  just  a  moment  too  long. 
Both  the  women  were  nearly  distracted  and  waiting 
in  nervous  suspense  to  know  whether  or  not  their 
children  had  been  saved.  Ill  as  they  were,  nothing 
could  satisfy  them  till  they  had  seen  their  own  chil- 


328  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

dren  safe.  So,  waiting  there  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
horror,  they  were  quite  able  to  notice  the  nurse's 
perplexity. 

There  was  nothing  for  the  nurse  to  do,  therefore, 
but  to  acknowledge  her  dilemma.  The  infants  were 
safe — that  was  all  she  could  say.  It  was  enough  at 
least  to  reassure  both  mothers'  minds  for  the  time 
being,  and  both  of  them  collapsed  and  were  taken 
away  to  the  nearest  house,  after  being  assured  that 
the  problem  would  be  settled  satisfactorily  as  soon 
as  those  who  knew  the  facts  could  be  questioned. 

The  next  day,  however,  it  was  found  that  the 
only  ones  who  knew  the  answer  to  the  riddle,  one 
of  the  house  physicians  and  two  nurses  who  had 
stayed  in  the  burning  building  caring  for  the  pa 
tients,  had  been  burned  to  death  or  had  died  from 
the  effects  of  their  injuries.  There  was,  therefore, 
absolutely  no  knowing  how  to  assign  the  children. 
It  was  a  question  for  the  mothers  to  decide  between 
themselves.  That's  how  the  trouble  began;  and  it 
wasn't  soon  over. 

In  the  first  place  the  boy  baby  had  red  hair — not 
much,  but  enough  to  serve  as  possible  hereditary 
evidence.  Now,  Mrs.  Courtenay  had  auburn  hair; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  so  did  Mr.  Charmion.  Mrs. 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        329 

Courtenay  argued  that  a  child  usually  resembles, 
physically,  its  parent  of  the  opposite  sex — that  is,  a 
boy  resembles  his  mother,  and  a  girl  her  father.  But 
Mrs.  Charmion  found  plenty  of  evidence  to  dis 
prove  that  theory.  Mr.  Charmion's  father,  for  in 
stance,  had  had  red  hair,  as  well  as  Mr.  Charmion 
himself. 

This  discussion  was  kept  up  for  a  week,  while  the" 
two  women  stayed  at  the  house  that  had  been  rented 
as  a  temporary  hospital  ward.  Mrs.  Courtenay  and 
Mrs.  Charmion  had  beds  in  the  same  room,  and  the 
children  were  cared  for  in  one  adjoining.  Night  and 
day  that  argument  was  kept  up,  sometimes  excitedly, 
as  the  two  women  grew  nervous  from  their  sus 
pense,  and  sometimes  amicably  weeping  with  laugh 
ter  at  the  comedy  of  the  situation.  Both  mothers 
were  college  women,  and  could  discuss  the  subject 
scientifically.  Of  course  that  was  in  1890,  before 
Mendel's  law  had  been  re-discovered,  or  else,  I 
suppose  there  would  have  been  a  great  deal  of  evi 
dence  as  to  whether  red  hair  was  a  dominant  or  a 
recessive  factor.  As  it  was,  they  quoted  Darwin, 
Lamarcke  and  Weissman  on  heredity  and  mutation, 
and  they  must  have  got  a  good  deal  over  their  heads. 
Mrs.  Courtenay  would  exploit  a  theory  over  one 


330  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

baby,  and  then  exclaim,  "Now  let  me  see  the  other 
one!"  Mrs.  Charmion  would  send  for  books  and 
encyclopedias,  and  then  cry,  "Give  me  that  child 
quick !"  And  so  it  went. 

Meanwhile  the  two  fathers  were  fighting  it  out 
together  in  the  same  way.  Mr.  Courtenay  would 
talk  it  over  with  his  wife.  He  would  talk  it  over  with 
Mr.  Charmion.  He  would  talk  it  over  with  Mrs. 
Charmion.  You'll  easily  see  that  there  were  six  com 
binations  of  pairs  possible,  and  each  pair  had  it  out. 

Well,  both  the  mothers  and  the  babies  throve, 
despite  the  uncertainty  of  parentage.  The  parents 
declared  an  armed  truce  on  the  red-hair  question, 
and  turned  from  specific  to  general  traits.  Which 
set  of  parents  did  each  child  most  resemble?  That 
was  the  question.  You  can  foresee  the  difficulties  of 
identification.  If  the  boy  had  Mr.  Courtenay 's  eyes 
and  Mrs.  Charmion's  nose,  he  was  sure  to  have  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  hands  and  Mr.  Charmion's  ears — and  so 
on.  Neither  of  the  children's  resemblance  to  either 
of  the  parents  was  pronounced  enough  to  determine 
the  question  for  the  four  adults  involved.  Fam 
ily  pictures  were  produced,  old  photographs,  daguer 
reotypes,  oil  portraits,  even  tintypes.  Some  seemed 
to  show  a  marked  resemblance  in  a  possible  ancestor, 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        331 

but  as  soon  as  one  child  appeared  to  be  proved  a 
descendant,  the  other  one  evidenced  proof  of  a  claim 
to  the  same  line. 

The  two  babies  had,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
during  the  first  fortnight,  four  parents  apiece. 

Mrs.  Courtenay,  as  she  convalesced,  studied  the 
boy  for  hours,  while  Mrs.  Charmion  inspected  the 
girl.  Then  the  two  women  would  compare  noteSi 
exchange  babies,  and  the  trouble  would  begin  all 
over  again.  Of  course,  there  was  no  envy;  it  was 
not  a  question  of  each  woman  wanting  the  best,  or 
handsomest  or  healthiest  or  brightest  child.  Each 
woman  wanted  her  own,  that  was  all — but  that  was 
enough  to  keep  each  mother  uncertain. 

This,  of  course,  couldn't  go  on  for  ever.  The 
women  wanted  to  go  to  their  homes,  and  each  want 
ed  to  take  a  baby.  But,  naturally,  it  was  necessary 
to  decide  which  child  each  should  take.  The  fathers 
grew  impatient  and  jocosely  proposed  that  they 
should  draw  lots  for  the  babies.  The  mothers 
couldn't  see  the  joke,  and  wept  when  it  was  sug 
gested.  It  was  a  serious  matter.  The  fathers  next 
offered  to  move  into  a  double  house  and  wait  for 
time  to  decide  the  question  by  developing  the  chil 
dren's  characteristic  differences.  The  mothers 


332  FIND   THE    WOMAN 

wouldn't  agree  to  that,  either.  And  so,  for  a  few 
days,  the  matter  was  at  a  deadlock,  with  the  women 
in  tears  and  the  men  surly.  But  by  this  time  the 
mothers  had  come  to  an  agreement  upon  one  impor 
tant  question.  They  decided  that,  whatever  were 
their  last  names,  the  boy  should  be  called  Bruce  and 
the  girl  Belle.  No  girl  ever  yet  liked  her  given 
name,  and  I  don't  like  mine — but  Belle  Courtenay 
or  Belle  Charmion,  one  or  the  other,  I  had  to  be. 

Well,  this  sort  of  thing  finally  became  intolerable 
and  the  two  women  grew  desperate.  It  was  work 
ing  on  their  nerves  so  badly  that  the  question  had  to 
be  decided  some  way.  Now  Mrs.  Courtenay  had 
wanted  a  son  tremendously;  her  husband  had,  also, 
although  a  father's  influence  isn't  supposed  to  mean 
much.  On  the  other  hands,  Mrs.  Charmion  and 
Mr.  Charmion  had  both  hoped  for  a  little  daugh 
ter.  So,  on  the  basis  of  these  two  strong  desires, 
and  their  prenatal  influence,  the  matter  was  settled. 
The  Courtenays  took  Bruce  home  to  East  Orange, 
and  the  Charmions  took  Belle  to  their  house  in 
Orange  Centre.  This  was  when  the  children  were 
three  weeks  old. 

Neither  of  the  women  was  really  satisfied.  There 
was  a  horrible  doubt  in  each  mother's  mind  that  per- 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        333 

haps  she  was  nursing  some  other  woman's  baby,  and 
this  kept  both  of  them  so  worried  that  neither  re 
covered  rapidly.  It  occurred  first  to  Mrs.  Charmion 
to  watch  for  peculiar  inherited  traits  and  see  if  the 
ancestry  couldn't  be  traced  along  that  line.  A  baby 
of  three  weeks  old,  however,  is  little  more  than  a 
breathing  automaton.  All  its  acts  are  instinctive, 
or  mere  physiological  reflexes.  It  is  rehearsing,  in 
its  development,  the  history  of  the  race.  Babies  are 
really  more  like  apes  than  human  beings.  At  the 
same  time,  family  traits  are  deeply  seated  and  will 
come  out.  This  was  Mrs.  Charmion's  view. 

About  two  days  after  the  families  had  separated, 
the  Courtenay  house  bell  was  rung  loud  and  long, 
at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Mr.  Courte 
nay  got  up,  threw  on  his  bath  robe  and  came  down 
to  the  front  door,  to  find  Mr.  Charmion  shivering 
on  the  stoop. 

"Say,  do  you  like  to  have  the  soles  of  your  feet 
tickled?"  was  the  first  thing  Mr.  Charmion  said. 

"D'you  mean  to  say  you've  got  me  up  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night  to  ask  that?"  Mr.  Courtenay  ex 
claimed.  "Good  heavens,  no !  I  can't  bear  it." 

Mr.  Charmion  persisted.  "Does  your  wife  like 
it?"  he  demanded. 


334  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  any  of  your  business," 
Mr.  Courtenay  replied.  "It  seems  to  me  to  be  a 
rather  personal  question.  But  as  you  seem  to  be 
serious,  I'll  tell  you  that  she  could  be  tortured  to 
death  that  way,  or  else  she'd  go  insane  in  about 
three  minutes." 

"Thank  God!"  Mr.  Charmion  answered,  and 
started  off,  when  Mr.  Courtenay  called  him  back. 

"Say,  for  heaven's  sake,  Charmion,  what  in  thun 
der  does  all  this  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Charmion,  "I  enjoy  having  the 
soles  of  my  feet  tickled,  and  so  does  Mrs.  Char 
mion.  She  adores  it.  It's  fine.  Confound  it,  it's 
restful.  It  eases  the  nerves,  you  know.  It  makes 
you  relax." 

Well,  Mr.  Courtenay  just  stood  there  and  stared 
at  Mr.  Charmion,  too  angry  for  words.  "Well,"  he 
said  at  last,  sarcastically,  "now  this  important  ques 
tion  is  settled,  I  suppose  I  may  go  to  bed  ?" 

"Wait  a  minute  till  I  get  Belle!  Then  you  can 
wake  up  Bruce  and  tickle  his  feet  and  we'll  know." 

"What  in  the  devil  d'you  mean?  Are  you  crazy, 
or  what?"  cried  Mr.  Courtenay. 

Then  Mr.  Charmion  explained.  Mrs.  Charmion, 
it  seemed,  had  awakened  in  the  middle  of  the  night 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        335 

thinking  of  the  fact  that  she  liked  to  have  the  soles 
of  her  feet  tickled,  and  so  did  her  husband.  It  was 
a  rare  trait;  most  people  can't  bear  it.  Perhaps  it 
would  do  for  a  test.  She  called  the  nurse  and  had 
little  Belle  brought  in,  and  they  carefully,  anxiously, 
solemnly  tickled  her  little  soles.  She  coughed, 
sneezed,  cried,  and,  more  important  than  all  that, 
she  contracted  the  muscles  of  her  toes  and  curled 
them  up  like  little  fists. 

"This  is  no  child  of  mine!"  Mrs.  Charmion  an 
nounced  to  her  husband,  "nor  of  yours  either.  Take 
her  over  to  the  Courtenays'  immediately  and  try; 
Bruce !"  Mr.  Charmion  obeyed. 

Well,  Mrs.  Courtenay  got  up  and  put  on  a  wrap 
per;  the  nurse  was  awakened,  and  little  Bruce  was 
brought  in  and  tickled  in  state.  He  smiled,  re 
laxed  his  toes  and  opened  them  as  wide  apart  as 
possible.  Could  anything  be  more  convincing  ?  The 
babies  were  swapped,  and  Mr.  Charmion  drove 
home  with  Bruce.  So  Belle  Charmion  became  Belle 
Courtenay. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  couldn't  deny  the  force  of  this 
test,  yet  she  was  so  worried  about  it  that  she  nearly 
made  herself  ill  thinking  over  it.  The  result  was 
that  one  afternoon  she  took  Belle  and  drove  over  to 


336  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

the  Charmions  in  great  excitement.  Mrs.  Charmion 
began  to  tremble  at  sight  of  her.  "Mercy,  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  what  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Have  you  dis 
covered  anything?" 

"We've  got  to  get  both  children  asleep  immedi 
ately,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay.  "Belle  simply  won't 
sleep  on  her  back,  and  the  Courtenays  as  a  family 
are  noted  for  that.  My  husband  always  sleeps  on 
his  back;  so  did  his  father  and  grandfather.  I 
don't,  but  my  father  and  all  my  brothers  do.  Do 
you,  Mrs.  Charmion?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Charmion.  "It  makes 
one  snore." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!  The  Courtenays,  without 
exception,  all  snore,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay.  "My 
husband  is  simply  dreadful.  I  always  have  to  sleep 
two  rooms  away.  Of  course,  Belle  is  too  little  to 
snore,  but  she  won't  sleep  unless  I  lay  her  on  her 
side." 

"That  is  funny,"  said  Mrs.  Charmion.  "I've  had 
lots  of  trouble  getting  Bruce  to  sleep;  I  never  tried 
to  put  him  on  his  back.  Some  doctors  do  say  it's 
more  healthful,  though,  that  way.  We'll  try  it  im 
mediately." 

The  two  children  were  rocked  and  cuddled  and 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        337 

sung  to,  and  finally  deposited  on  a  double  bed,  both 
on  their  sides.  Belle  went  to  sleep  instantly ;  Bruce 
would  not  close  his  eyes.  Both  babies  were  then 
laid  upon  their  backs.  Bruce  went  instantly  to  sleep, 
Belle  wailed.  Bruce  was  then  made  comfortable, 
and  when  both  children  were  in  Dreamland  the  two 
mothers  cried  it  out  together. 

"Isn't  it  awful,  to  have  to  decide  such  an  impor 
tant  question  on  such  a  little  thing  as  that?"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  gazing  at  the  babes. 

"Look  at  Belle's  hand!"  cried  Mrs.  Charmion, 
suddenly.  "Now  that  settles  it !  I'm  positive  you're 
right!  See,  she  holds  the  thumb  inside  her  fist,  just 
like  all  the  Charmions !  Bruce  keeps  his  thumb  out 
side.  Don't  the  Courtenays  and  your  people  clench 
the  thumb  outside  their  fists  ?" 

"Of  course  they  do !"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay.  "It's 
a  sign  of  a  weak  will  to  keep  the  thumb  inside." 

"Pshaw!  No  one  ever  accused  a  Charmion  of 
having  a  weak  will ;  and  I'm  sure  that  thumb  doesn't 
mean  anything  of  the  kind.  But,  at  any  rate,  it 
proves  pretty  conclusively  that  your  inference  was 
right  from  her  sleeping  posture.  When  they  get 
old  enough  to  roll  over  of  themselves  there'll  be  no 
possible  doubt  of  it.  You'd  better  take  Bruce  right 


338  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

back  with  you,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  and  I'll  take  my 
girl!"  So  Bruce  Charmion  became  ,a  Courtenay 
again. 

Well,  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  all  the  curious  ins 
and  outs  of  that  ridiculous  case.  Bruce  was  taken 
back  from  the  Courtenays.  Early  one  morning  he 
was  seen  to  wiggle  his  ears — an  immemorial  Char 
mion  characteristic,  and  Belle  was  proved  to  be  a 
true  Charmion,  after  that,  upsetting  all  previous 
evidences  on  account  of  her  fear  of  cats — a  trait  for 
which  the  family  had  always  been  noted. 

Of  course,  if  the  ladies  had  not  been  well  edu 
cated  enough  to  know  that  the  doctrine  of  transmis 
sion  of  acquired  characteristics  had  been  exploded, 
there  would  have  been  many  more  complications; 
as,  for  instance,  in  Belle's  delight  when  the  piano 
was  played,  and  Brace's  aversion  to  blue.  These 
things,  of  course,  came  later,  when  the  babies  had 
begun  to  manifest  intellectual  powers,  but  there  was 
quite  enough  else  to  keep  the  two  families  busy. 
The  two  children  had  scarcely  time  to  get  used  to 
their  mothers  before  they  were  whisked  back.  Soon 
every  aunt  and  uncle,  not  to  speak  of  the  grand 
parents  of  the  two  babies  were  brought  into  the 
controversy.  Family  councils  were  held  and  both 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        339 

babies  were  hurriedly  sent  for,  inspected,  analyzed, 
and  judgment  passed.  Maiden  aunts  and  interested 
cousins  would  insist  that  resemblances  were  unmis 
takable  on  one  side,  and  immediately  sisters-in-law 
and  step-children  on  the  other  side  would  veto  the 
verdict. 

The  two  families  naturally  got  pretty  well  ac 
quainted.  In  spite  of  the  occasional  quarrels  and 
jealousies,  the  two  sets  of  fathers  and  mothers  be 
came  great  friends.  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Mrs. 
Charmion  met  often  to  sew  on  the  babies'  layouts; 
for,  since  it  was  never  certain  who  was  to  do  the 
dressing  of  either  the  boy  or  the  girl,  it  was  advisa 
ble  that  both  mothers'  tastes  should  be  consulted. 
So  they  embroidered  and  stitched  and  folded  and 
tucked  as  they  talked  the  matter  over.  The  fathers 
discussed  the  same  subject  from  a  different  point  of 
view,  on  board  the  train,  every  morning  on  the  way 
to  their  business  in  New  York.  So,  finally,  it  was 
decided,  half  in  jest  and  half  in  earnest,  that  the 
boy  and  girl  should  be  formally  engaged  to  eacli 
other,  in  the  ancient  royal  style.  Two  similar  gold 
lockets  were  bought,  each  with  a  diamond  star  on 
the  front,  and  each  child  received  one  as  a  troth- 
plight  token.  If  the  two  children  should  marry  as 


340  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

planned,  when  they  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one, 
it  would  settle  all  property  rights,  at  least ;  although 
whether  the  two  contracting  parties  themselves 
would  ever  consent  to  this  arrangement  was,  of 
course,  another  matter. 

This  was  the  way  matters  stood  when  the  two 
children  were  thirteen  months  old.  The  Courte- 
nays  and  the  Charmions  had  gone  away  to  the 
Maine  coast  for  their  summer  vacation,  taking  one 
large  cottage  for  the  two  families.  The  children 
slept  up-stairs  in  a  large  nursery. 

One  night,  as  the  two  women  were  sitting  sew 
ing,  discussing  the  inevitable  topic,  Mrs.  Courtenay 
smelled  smoke.  She  spoke  of  it  to  Mrs.  Charmion, 
who  confirmed  her  suspicion,  and  the  two  went  out 
into  the  hall  together  to  investigate.  An  overturned 
lamp  lay  on  the  floor  under  the  stairs,  the  oil  had 
spread  over  the  carpet,  and  was  burning  fiercely. 
The  inside  of  the  closet  under  the  stairs  was  all 
afire. 

With  simultaneous  screams,  the  two  women 
started  running  up-stairs  for  the  children.  They 
were  almost  out  of  their  heads  with  terror,  and 
they  fought  their  way,  crowding  one  another  like 
maniacs  up  to  the  top,  equally  anxious  to  rescue  the 


THE   BREWSTER   MANSION        341 

children.  More  correctly,  I  suppose,  each  mother 
was  anxious  to  rescue  her  own  child.  By  the  time 
they  reached  the  door  of  the  nursery  the  smoke 
filled  the  hall,  and  the  women  were  frantic.  They 
were  beyond  reason;  they  acted  automatically. 
They  burst  through  the  door  together. 

The  children's  cots  stood  side  by  side,  and  the 
way  was  clear  to  both.  The  mothers  knew  perfectly 
well  which  baby  was  in  each  cot.  There  was  not  a 
word  spoken  after  they  entered  the  room,  but,  as  if 
by  a  prearranged  plan,  the  mothers  each  took  a  dif 
ferent  cot,  ran  and  grabbed  the  child  it  contained, 
then  rushed  down-stairs  through  the  smoke  and 
flames  till  they  were  safe  upon  the  lawn. 

Then  they  turned  and  looked  at  each  other  in 
wonder.  At  this  time  Belle  had  been  with  the 
Courtenays  for  some  months,  and  Bruce  with  the 
Charmions.  The  affair  had  been  virtually  decided 
forever.  But,  when  the  two  women  came  to  their 
senses  they  found  that,  without  reason  or  will, 
without  conscious  intent  that  they  could  remember, 
acting  merely  upon  blind  impulse,  Mrs.  Courtenay 
had  saved  Bruce,  and  Mrs.  Charmion  had  rescued 
Belle.  And,  without  even  discussing  it,  understand 
ing  each  other  and  themselves  without  words,  each 


342  FIND   THE   WOMAN 

mother  knew  that  she  had  acted  upon  instinct,  and 
that  her  instinct  had  been  true.  The  fathers  were 
never  so  sure,  but,  from  that  day,  neither  Mrs. 
Courtenay  nor  Mrs.  Charmion  doubted  that  she  had 
her  own  child. 

"And  so,"  Miss  Charmion  concluded,  "there  will 
never  be  an  answer  to  your  question  'Who  is  Belle 
Charmion  ?'  for  no  one  will  ever  know." 

Fenton  arose  and  put  his  arm  about  her.  With 
a  little  shiver  of  delicious  excitement  she  put  up  her 
face  to  his  without  fear. 

"It  doesn't  matter,  anyway,  my  dear,"  said  he, 
smiling  down  at  her,  "because  her  name  is  going  to 
be  Belle  Courtenay  again  as  soon  as  I  can  get  a 
marriage  license!  Haven't  we  been  engaged  for 
twenty  years?" 

Her  reply  was  smothered  in  his  kiss;  but  what 
ever  she  said  it  is  safe  to  believe  that  it  was  not 
"No." 


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